


The Hall by the Wall

by Vernon (Fielding)



Category: Depeche Mode
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-27
Updated: 2018-05-27
Packaged: 2019-05-14 07:27:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 40,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14765213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fielding/pseuds/Vernon
Summary: While making Construction Time Again in Berlin, the band explores new sounds and forges new relationships. And Alan's finally making a place for himself.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A great deal of this story is focused on the band dynamics, not Dave/Alan. So hopefully even the Dave/Mart or Fletch/Alan or Fletch/Toast Hawaii fans will find something of interest! (Actually, the Fletch/Toast Hawaii fans may be very happy.) Beta by Clocks. Originally posted on LJ in 2010.

_Get out the crane_  
 _construction time again_  
 _What is it this time_  
 _we’re laying a pipeline_  
-Pipeline  
  
  
  
Alan couldn’t help himself. He stared dumbstruck, mouth open like an idiot, as they stepped into the hall. Beside him Dave gave a low whistle.  
  
Hansa was exactly how he’d imagined it, and nothing at all like he’d expected. He’d seen photos, of course. But still, the size of this hall, of this legendary Studio Two, and the energy that fairly hummed in it, took his breath away. The vaulted ceiling of the converted ballroom was at least two stories high and their footsteps, even their breathing, seemed to echo off the walls. The studio was clean and bright, sunlight filtering in through large, wide-set windows. The place smelled old and faintly of cigarettes and marijuana, and something richer and exotic. The air wasn’t quite musty, but it reminded him of the old church his parents had taken him to as a child – warm and intimidating all at once.  
  
It seemed outrageous that they’d be working in this place, in the same building where Bowie and Iggy Pop and countless others had produced some of their best work. A grand piano stood in one corner – dull and obviously well-used, and Alan’s fingers itched to play it.  
  
It was a pity they weren’t actually going to be recording here.  
  
“C’mon, lads,” Dan said. “Control room’s this way.”  
  
Alan tore his gaze away from the piano and saw Dan watching them, that small paternal smile lighting up his face. The rest of the band, Alan noticed, looked just as awestruck as he felt, and Alan felt a jolt of embarrassment. He knew they all felt out of their league.  
  
“This place is pretty bloody great, yeah?” Dave said, voice unusually hushed as they walked out of the great hall.  
  
“It’s all right,” Alan said. “If you like Bowie, I suppose.”  
  
Martin laughed behind them and Dave gave Alan a little shove on the back.   
  
The four of them followed Dan up a wide flight of gently curving stairs to the second floor, which seemed dark and industrial compared to the beautiful old ballroom below. Dan took them down a hallway and knocked once before opening a door at the end. They all filed into a control room and for the second time in just minutes, Alan felt breathless with excitement. The control room was huge and full of natural light, and so different from the spaces they were used to in London. It didn’t have the austerity and heavy energy of Studio Two – this room was quite the opposite, in fact, a technical marvel with some equipment Alan wasn’t even sure he recognized.  
  
“Bloody amazing,” he said in spite of himself.  
  
Across the room Gareth laughed. He sat at one of the consoles, messing about with the biggest mixing board Alan had ever seen. Dan had sent Gareth ahead of them to start setting up their tracks for mixing, and to familiarize himself with the equipment. Alan felt suddenly and intensely impatient – he wanted to get to work now, get his hands all over this technology. He walked straight over to Gareth and ran a hand down one side of the mixing board.  
  
The rest of the band fanned out too, all of them exploring the space. Fletch sat on a couch, pushed up against the wall opposite the main console, and bounced up and down a few times. “Even the bloody sofa is top of the line,” he said. “Mart, come and have a seat.”  
  
“In a minute,” Martin said vaguely. He’d joined Alan and Gareth at the mixing board and when he glanced up his grin was blinding and full of excitement. Alan grinned right back at him, and they both burst into laughter.  
  
“Incredible, right?” Gareth said. He flipped a series of switches on the mixing board and gestured to a computer monitor to his right. “It’s got 56 channels.”  
  
Alan actually gasped out loud, and Martin said, “Fifty-six? What the hell do we need 56 channels for?”  
  
Gareth beamed at them and said, “We don’t,” and all three of them bent over laughing.  
  
“The recording studio’s in here,” Dan said, and Alan looked up. He hadn’t even noticed the wide window looking into the room next door. Dave quickly crossed the room and followed Dan into the studio, and Alan reluctantly left the mixing board to join them.  
  
The studio was airy and spacious and as peaceful and welcoming as the main studio downstairs was overwhelming. Dave walked the perimeter like an animal familiarizing himself with new territory, and Alan supposed that wasn’t too far off the mark. They didn’t expect to do a lot of recording here in Berlin – almost all of it already had been done in London – but it was possible they’d need Dave to lay down a few more vocals still.  
  
Dave was nodding as he walked, clearly approving of the space, and Alan felt an odd flush of happiness. Alan was already in love with the control room – he wanted Dave to be similarly pleased with his own working space.  
  
Dave stopped in front of a wide window set in the far wall. “Is that what I think it is?” he said, tipping his head to one side.  
  
Dan stepped up beside him and nodded. “The Berlin Wall,” he said.  
  
“We can see the Berlin fucking Wall from our studio?” Alan said. He joined them at the windows and there it was, impossible to miss – dirty and gray except for the large patches covered in splashes of blue and green and red graffiti.  
  
“Wow,” Fletch said, as he and Martin joined them in the studio. They walked over to the large window, and for a moment the four of them stood there in a line, noses nearly pressed up against the glass.  
  
Alan had seen the wall before – once on a previous tour when they’d done a gig in West Berlin and had a few hours to spare, and once just that morning, on their way to the studio. He’d been interested in it, of course, more as a cultural and geographical curiosity than because he had any strong feelings about the politics. But there was something about seeing it now -- large and oppressive and, presumably, a constant presence in their lives, at least for the next few weeks – that made Alan really take notice of it. It gave the space they were in, bright and cheery as it was, a dark, haunted atmosphere. It was really rather melancholy, and Alan found that he liked it.  
  
“There’s a reason they call this place ‘the big hall by the wall,’” Dan said. His voice had taken a thoughtful tone, and Alan turned to glance at him. “Great music has happened here, lads. Welcome to Hansa.”  
  
  
  
+++  
  
  
  
They didn’t stay long at Hansa that afternoon, although Alan got another 20 minutes to drool over the control room equipment with Gareth, long enough that Dave started making jokes about porn for studio geeks. Alan figured he deserved it – he kept stroking the mixing board and felt a strange compulsion to touch every single knob on the console. With a chuckle, Alan realized he was reminded of his brother talking about counting the fingers and toes on his son when he’d been born. Alan had thought that ridiculous at the time, but now it made a strange kind of sense.  
  
Dan took them back to the hotel, which was within easy walking distance of the studio. They’d stayed at the Intercontinental before when they’d played gigs in West Berlin, but never for more than a night or two, and they’d always spent far more time in clubs and concert halls than in their actual rooms. Dan had arranged for their luggage to be taken from the airport to the hotel for them, so the band could go straight to Hansa for a look around. So Alan felt strangely unburdened as he walked through the main lobby to the reservation desk where they picked up their keys.  
  
The band was staying on the third floor, which was a relief because it meant they could take the stairs if needed. Fletch had an odd phobia of fires and drove the rest of them crazy when he felt trapped in a closed space with no obvious exits – high-rises only accessible by lift were particularly offensive to him.  
  
The lift in the Intercontinental was glass-walled and fast-moving and it made Alan slightly nervous. But it offered a good view of the lush lobby and the lounge area beyond the reservation desk. The hotel wasn’t decorated to Alan’s tastes – there was far too much gold lame and brocade, and he’d never understood the appeal of over-stuffed furniture – but it looked expensive, and he couldn’t believe he’d be living here for the next month and a half. It was true, the exchange rate in Berlin was highly favorable, but Alan still thought it showed a great degree of faith in the band that Dan was willing to put them up in such posh digs.  
  
They agreed to meet in the lobby for dinner in an hour, and each of them disappeared into his own room. They almost always shared rooms on the road – or just slept on the bus – but Dan had decided that they would each get their own space on this trip, for which Alan was grateful. He usually shared with Dave, which was fine for a night or two, but Dave had a weird habit of stripping down to his underwear as soon as he entered a hotel room. Alan didn’t mind the near-nudity – to each his own, and if Dave felt more comfortable in his underwear, good for him – but the clothes he left scattered around the room were beyond annoying, and Dave was messy in other ways too, spreading his toiletries all around the bathroom and leaving random bits of wadded bills and old receipts on every flat surface. Plus, Dave was an early riser, and Alan was decidedly not.  
  
Alan was relieved to see his luggage piled on the double bed when he walked in his room. It was a small space – barely large enough to maneuver around the bed – but there was a writing table in one corner and a television in the other, and the furniture was thankfully uncomplicated. Alan opened his large suitcase and considered the clothes inside, and then for the first time in his life, he unpacked in a hotel; there’d never been any point before. As he hung his trousers and tucked his shirts away in the dresser, he thought he should probably do some clothes shopping while he was in Berlin, where the prices would be good. He’d only recently started collecting a decent salary from the band, and his wardrobe was a little sad and outdated – the shirts were faded and a bit frayed at the sleeves, and none of his trousers fit right in the arse, as Jeri was so fond of pointing out to him. Maybe he’d surprise her and buy a pair of leather pants while he was here.  
  
There was a knock on the door and after a quick look through the peephole, Alan opened it and waved Dave inside.  
  
“Pretty good deal, our own rooms, yeah?” Dave said. He walked over to the bed and collapsed back on it, spreading his arms and legs wide. “Mine’s bigger.”  
  
“Dream on, Gahan,” Alan said. “Anyway, it’s not the size that matters, it’s what you do with it.”  
  
“Keep tellin’ yourself that,” Dave said. He pushed himself up on his elbows and took a slow look around the room. “A man could get used to this, Al.”  
  
“What, living out of tiny hotel rooms thousands of miles from home surrounded by a bunch of hairy blokes day and night? Sounds like the high life to me,” Alan said.  
  
Dave fell on his back and laughed. “That’s the spirit. Don’t ever change, man.”  
  
“Wasn’t planning on it.” Alan grabbed Dave’s leg at the ankle and gave it a hard pull. “C’mon, Mr. Living Large. Time to meet the rest of the hairy blokes downstairs.”  
  
Dave groaned and sat up, and they both headed for the door. “I’m not that hairy, you know.”  
  
“Please,” Alan scoffed. “I’ve seen that hairy arse more times than I care to count.”  
  
“Knew you were looking,” Dave said, and gave him an exaggerated wink.  
  
Alan just rolled his eyes and shoved him out the door.  
  
  
  
+++  
  
  
  
They took cars across the city to a French restaurant where Dan had made reservations for the band, as well as a few people he introduced as friends and who Alan suspected were movers and shakers in the burgeoning West Berlin music scene. They all looked liked they’d been cut from the same basic mold – tall and slim, hair slicked back close to their skull, dressed head to toe in black leather. But they were a friendly bunch and seemed genuinely excited to meet Alan and the others. Alan wondered what Dan had told them about Depeche Mode.  
  
They were seated at a round table in the back of the restaurant -- Alan was glad he’d worn trousers that day instead of jeans, because this definitely wasn’t a denim type of place. Alan sat next to one of the Germans, a man named Karsten who was, in fact, a sound engineer at another studio in Berlin. He was a nice guy, but his English wasn’t much better than Alan’s German, and after a few pleasantries they both ran out of conversation. Alan was relieved when one of the other Germans asked Karsten a question, leaving Alan to tuck into his potato soup in peace.  
  
On his other side Dave was laughing with Martin and Fletch about something or other from one of their first tours. They did this from time to time – reminiscing about earlier days – and Alan didn’t begrudge them it, but he’d long ago given up pretending to be interested for the sake of fitting in with the band. Listening to war stories from the road was about as exciting as looking at someone’s holiday photos – which was to say, excruciatingly boring.  
  
Still, Alan couldn’t help but look up from his soup when Martin laughed so hard that people from other tables turned to stare. Fletch covered his mouth with his hand to contain his laughter, and Dave, Alan saw, was turning red. Alan raised an eyebrow at him, but Dave just ducked his head and buried his face in his napkin. This was unusual – Dave didn’t embarrass easily.  
  
“Those nuns!” Fletch said. “I bet they’d never seen anything like that before!”  
  
“We weren’t expecting nuns,” Dave said defensively, mostly to Alan, although he had to know Alan had no idea what he was talking about.  
  
“What about the nuns?” Alan said, which just sent Martin into another fit.  
  
“Two years ago in Berlin,” Fletch said. “These nuns come around our hotel, passing out pamphlets, I think, and Vince, he opens the door and invites them right inside and there’s Dave on the bed in nothing but his underwear.”  
  
“Vince said he never saw Dave put on a pair of trousers so fast,” Martin said, somewhat breathless from laughing.  
  
Alan tried to muster up a smile, but it was difficult when it suddenly felt like there was a ball of lead in his stomach. He’d never really thought much about how the band got along before he’d joined, but he supposed he’d always assumed that Dave had been the outsider to Mart, Fletch and Vince’s Three Musketeers. Now the idea of Dave and Vince sharing a room hit him with surprising force -- he felt unexpectedly, and unreasonably, jealous.  
  
“It’s not like we molested them,” Dave said, apparently misreading the look on Alan’s face.  
  
“Of course not,” Alan said. He shook his head and dredged up every ounce of sarcasm he could find. “I just thought me and your bum had something special. I’m hurt, Dave.”  
  
Dave laughed and pulled him in for a one-armed hug. He said, “My bum’s only got eyes for you now, Al,” which just made Martin snicker and mutter something to Fletch about Dave’s slutty arse.  
  
Apparently there was more to the story and Fletch went on telling it, but Alan stopped paying attention. It was ridiculous to feel jealous over past relationships, especially since Vince wasn’t in the band anymore, and rarely even came up in conversation. Alan still felt a little insecure about his place in the band – he knew it would take time to establish himself, and he already felt like he’d made a lot of progress during the recording session in London – but he’d never felt directly competitive with Vince.  
  
Alan decided he was just feeling anxious and insecure. As eager as he was to begin mixing the new album, he was also nervous about letting down the band. They’d already put a fair amount of pressure on him, as the new guy with the so-called real musical background. He had a lot to prove with them, and to himself, and maybe there was a part of him that needed to out-perform Vince.  
  
That reasoning made about as much sense as anything else, Alan thought. He glanced at Dave, who happened to look his way at the same moment, and gave him a small, secret wink. The knot in his stomach eased up and Alan relaxed. He was just being petty, after all.  
  
  
  
+++  
  
  
  
The Germans invited them out for drinks after dinner and so they took off on foot for the Mitte district, in the center of West Berlin. Dan suggested they make an early night of it, since the band was meeting in the morning to lay out a schedule for the next few weeks. The first item on Alan’s personal agenda would be no more morning meetings.  
  
They ended up at a bar that was pulsing and thumping with German pop music that was far too commercial for Alan’s taste. When some Joachim Witt shit came on he groaned and challenged the German sound engineers to a drinking contest – if they were going to force German “new wave” on him, they were going to bloody well get him drunk too. He didn’t hold much stock in Depeche Mode winning -- he’d been drinking with the lads before, of course, and only Dave had ever shown any promise of a decent tolerance to hard liquor.  
  
So Alan was pleasantly surprised to find that the band was a force to be reckoned with in a battle of vodka shots. Maybe it was just a fluke, but their only casualty was Fletch, who vomited all over his own shoes after the second round. After arranging for a cab for the beaten-down and very drunk Germans, Depeche Mode left the bar victorious, Fletch strung over Alan and Dave’s shoulders and Martin following behind, stumbling drunk and singing something that sounded suspiciously like “Der Kommissar.”  
  
“Oof,” Dave said, as they dragged Fletch’s dead weight out to the sidewalk to get their own taxi. “This one’s not as wiry as he looks.”  
  
“It’s the hair,” Alan said. He paused to get a better grip on Fletch’s arm. “It may look like a meringue but it’s dense as a rock.”  
  
Dave laughed, and then a taxi pulled up and they spent a few minutes trying to shove Fletch’s long, mysteriously heavy body into the backseat before giving up and tucking him in the front beside the driver. Martin was asleep in the back by the time they had Fletch taken care of, and Alan was grateful he’d been kind enough to pass out after getting in the car, instead of on the sidewalk.  
  
The car pulled away and Alan rolled down the window, partly to get the stench of Fletch’s vomit-covered shoes out of the car, and partly because the cool wind felt good on his face. Alan held his liquor well, but even he was feeling a little flushed after five or six good shots.  
  
“That was a bloody fucking miracle,” Dave said.  
  
Alan turned away from the window and raised an eyebrow at him.  
  
“There’s no way we should’ve beaten those German blokes,” Dave said.  
  
“Speak for yourself, mate,” Alan said.  
  
“Fine, there’s no way me, Fletch and Mart should’ve beat those blokes.”  
  
“Fletch?”  
  
Dave rolled his eyes. “Me and Mart, then. What I’m trying to say, arsehole, is that I think it was a sign.”  
  
“A sign,” Alan said.  
  
“Yeah, man. A sign. An omen,” Dave said, and waved his hand around. “A miracle. Or something.”  
  
Dave paused, seeming to think something over. When he finally turned to look Alan in the face, his eyes were wide and bright, the pupils shining in the headlights from passing cars. He looked so serious, like he’d just figured out something very important and amazing, and he put one hand on Alan’s shoulder near his neck, and brought their faces close together. Alan felt his breath catch despite himself.  
  
“I think we’re on to something, Al,” Dave said. “I think we’re on to something really great.”  
  
Alan felt himself nodding, unable to tear his eyes away from Dave. Then Dave grinned at him and laughed, and the seriousness disappeared like it’d never been there in the first place. Dave fell back into the seat, and a moment later he was asleep.  
  
Alan watched him for a moment. “I think you’re right,” he said quietly, and he turned back to the window to watch the city roll by.  
  



	2. Chapter 2

_Lots of surprises in store  
This isn’t a party  
it’s a whole lot more_  
-More Than a Party  
  
  
  
“Remember what I told you? Mixing a song, it’s like building a house,” Gareth said. His voice was patient, but his jaw was set in frustration.  
  
“I know, yeah, and you don’t go back and dig a new basement after you’ve put in the kitchen,” Alan said. “Except you do when the dodgy basement is about to collapse under the vocals.”  
  
Martin groaned dramatically and rubbed a hand over his eyes. “The basement-“ he said, and shook his head. “You blokes and your bloody house metaphor. The  _drums_  aren’t dodgy and they sound fine with the vocals. We’re not changing the drums now. It’s too late. Let’s move on to the bass, Gareth.”  
  
But Gareth just sighed deeply, looking entirely put upon, and said, “No, Al’s right. The drums are shit.”  
  
Alan wanted to feel triumphant, but really he just felt tired – he didn’t want to be right about the drums, because it meant they’d have to tear apart the song and start from the bottom again. The drums were the foundation – everything else depended on the drums.  
  
They’d been in the studio for a week and they’d finished mixing one song, which meant they were already a few days behind schedule. Dan had gone back to London to take care of some business, trusting them to get a good start on their own, which had taken Alan by surprise – Dan had been very hands-on a few months back too, when they’d done “Get the Balance Right.” He’d been a bit cold toward Alan then, pushing harder against Alan’s ideas than the rest of the band’s, and certainly Martin’s. But things had improved considerably by the time they got back into the studio to record the album. If Dan wasn’t quite as warm toward Alan now as he was with the others, that was fine – Alan knew they’d all worked together longer, but more than that, Dan obviously still thought of Depeche Mode as young lads in need of guidance. Alan couldn’t help it if he didn’t quite fit that mould.  
  
Alan and Gareth had been in the studio every day since coming to Berlin, and they were working at least 12 hours a day – which was exactly the way they both wanted it. Gareth was a skillful engineer who shared Alan’s perfectionist tendencies, and he seemed eager to teach Alan everything he knew about mixing. For all that Alan had spent the past eight years working in studios, he’d never actually built an album from the ground up before, and he found the process fascinating and exhilarating. It was almost magical, taking a song from a whisper in Martin’s brain to something that felt like a living, breathing being in the studio with them, wanting nothing more than to be heard.  
  
Martin himself clearly didn’t find the process quite so magical. He seemed to alternate between relief that Alan wanted to help with the mixing – it obviously took pressure off Martin, who’d been responsible for not just writing the songs, but most of the construction too, on the last album – and annoyance that he was slowing down the process. Fletch didn’t seem to care much one way or the other about what Alan did in the studio, although when Martin disagreed with Alan or Gareth, Fletch usually took his side. Fletch tended to float in and out of the control room, sometimes stopping to make comments on how a song was coming along, but more often settling on the sofa with a book or magazine.  
  
Alan was surprised to learn that Dave seemed just as invested in getting the perfect song as he was. Martin sometimes bristled at Alan’s suggestions, but Dave tended to back Alan up, and he noticed Dave speaking up and offering his opinions more often too, as time passed.  
  
Dave stayed out of the studio most afternoons, usually showing up around dinner time with sandwiches or pizza for the rest of the guys. But when he was in the studio, he was an enthusiastic participant – his entire face would light up when he heard something he liked, and he’d bob his head up and down with the beat, and grin madly, like he’d been given a gift. When they had finally nailed “More Than a Party,” he’d whooped out loud and clapped Alan hard on the back.  
  
“That’s it, man. That’s exactly it,” he’d said, and pulled Alan into a hard and fast hug, and Alan had grinned into his shoulder.  
  
But when Dave came in that evening they were playing “Love, In Itself” again, trying to figure out where the drums had gone wrong. Dave frowned. “Er-“  
  
“Don’t say it,” Alan said, putting up a hand. “The drums are shit. We’re starting over, don’t worry.”  
  
Dave beamed at him and sat down in one of the rolling chairs in front of the main console. He liked to do that, take up space right in the middle of the room where he’d be in the way of everything, but Alan tended to just roll his eyes and indulge him. Dave, for all his at-times juvenile behavior, was an oddly calming presence in the studio. His enthusiasm was catching, at least.  
  
“All right,” Dave said, cracking his knuckles. “Show me what you’ve got.”  
  
Martin sighed, but he pushed his chair over too, and even Fletch set down his magazine and leaned forward on the sofa. Alan exchanged a look with Gareth, who raised his eyebrows and shrugged, and played the new drum track Alan had been tinkering with. He felt a sudden flutter of nerves as it filled the room and everyone was quiet, just listening.  
  
Then Dave started nodding his head, and said, “Yeah, this is good, Al.”  
  
Martin was tapping his fingers on the console in time to the beat, and he sat up suddenly and snapped his fingers. “I remember this sound,” he said. “It’s from that building, the one with the pipes and that rusted fire escape.“  
  
“Yeah, that’s the one,” Alan said.  
  
“I found that sound!” Fletch said, and jumped up from the couch.  
  
Alan laughed. He couldn’t honestly remember who had discovered that particular sound – they all tended to blend together after they’d been sampled and recorded to separate tracks – but if Fletch wanted to take credit for it, Alan was happy to let him.  
  
“Well then,” Gareth said. He flipped a few switches on the mixing board and glowing waves of music began to flow across the computer monitor at his side. “It sounds like we’ve got our basement.”  
  
  
  
+++  
  
  
  
Four productive hours later, and the energy level in the control room was starting to slip again. They’d made good progress on the song, but then the Synclavier started acting up and Alan and Gareth spent an hour trying to get the bass in the middle eight synced to the drums, and Martin looked like he was ready to get down on his knees and beg them to just let it be. Alan couldn’t understand his “good enough” attitude – if a song was worth recording, it was worth getting the mix as close to perfect as possible. Sometimes he felt like the rest of the band behaved as though they were still recording in someone’s garage, selling homemade demos and waiting for the next gig at the church round the corner. He wondered if it was some kind of defense mechanism – as though if they expected to do well, they were just setting themselves up for failure. Alan had never been able to relate to that kind of attitude. If he knew he was good at something, everybody else would bloody well know it too.  
  
But he knew he wasn’t being fair. Martin was talented, and Alan already thought they could make a good team. Alan figured he would have stuck with the band no matter what – he’d needed the paycheck in the worst way when they’d brought him on, and he still wasn’t in a position to turn down a steady gig – but the thrill he got from working on Mart’s songs was unexpected. Alan wasn’t much impressed with his own songwriting thus far, but Martin was on to something. And Alan was determined to bring out the best in his songs.  
  
“Hey, Duran Duran’s in town this weekend,” Fletch said. He’d been sprawled on the couch flipping through a local entertainment rag for the past half hour.  
  
“Yeah? Where are they playing?” Dave said.  
  
Fletch squinted at the page and groaned. “Deutschlandhalle,” he said.  
  
“You’re bloody joking,” Dave said, as Mart walked over to read over Fletch’s shoulder.  
  
“Two nights,” Martin said. “Friday and Saturday.”  
  
Alan huffed a breath in disgust. “Fucking hell.”  
  
Depeche Mode had only ever played Metropol in Berlin – a middling auditorium with crap acoustics that made them sound like they were playing in some dodgy Basildon bar. Dave especially hated the way his voice bounced off the dingy walls creating an odd, flat echo, and Alan privately agreed with him. Metropol was a decent enough gig for an up-and-coming band. But Deutschlandhalle was the goal. It wasn’t the best venue – it was, at the end of the day, just a large arena – but it was the best known. It was insulting that Duran Duran, with their poufy hair and cheesy guitars and even cheesier lyrics, was playing gigs there now.  
  
“Shall we go? Toss a few tomatoes?” Martin said with a laugh.  
  
Fletch chuckled, but shook his head firmly. “I wouldn’t pay 50 pence to see them. Not even to chuck tomatoes at the tossers.”  
  
Everyone laughed, but Alan saw that Dave looked royally pissed. “Next time,” he said, “we’re playing the Hall.”  
  
“Yeah,” Fletch said. “Deutschlandhalle or bust.”  
  
The room fell silent again, and now the earlier energy of the day was gone completely. Mart collapsed on the couch next to Fletch, shoving his feet off to the side. Alan could hear Fletch flipping pages in the magazine, and Dave was drumming his fingers on the mixing board. It seemed the rest of the band was pretty much done for the day. Or the night – it was nearing 11.  
  
“Hey, Mart, that band you like, Die Artze, they’re playing tonight,” Fletch said.  
  
“Yeah?” Martin said. He glanced at the clock behind the couch. “They’re probably halfway done now.”  
  
“Show’s at Metropol. You know they always start late,” Fletch said.  
  
Martin glanced at Alan and Gareth. He usually stayed after midnight with them, even if he didn’t last quite as long as they did, working sometimes until 4 in the morning. Alan waved him off.  
  
“Go on,” he said. “It’ll probably take us the rest of the night to figure out the bloody Synclavier.”  
  
It was true, and Alan knew that he and Gareth would make better progress without the rest of the band hanging about with nothing to do.  
  
“All right, yeah,” Martin said.  
  
Fletch grinned at him and tossed down the magazine. “Great. And I can get a sandwich there too. I’m bloody starving.”  
  
While Martin and Fletch collected their jackets, Alan turned to Dave. “You should go with them,” he said.  
  
Dave was still looking put out about the Duran Duran show, and he shrugged. “Nah, I’d rather stay here and pester you and Gareth. Can’t let you blokes work too hard and all that.”  
  
Alan smiled. He appreciated Dave’s loyalty – he couldn’t possibly prefer a long night in the studio to getting a few drinks with the others and taking in a show – but it was misplaced. He liked having Dave around, because he made the hours fly by and they always laughed a lot. But sometimes he really was a distraction, and tonight they couldn’t afford to let time fly.  
  
“Seriously, mate. Go ahead,” Alan said, and added meaningfully, “It might be the last time you get to see the inside of Metropol.”  
  
Dave laughed, but he didn’t look happy. He looked disappointed, actually. Dave studied Alan’s face for a moment, then he nodded. “Okay then,” he said. “I guess I’ll see you tomorrow?”  
  
“Yeah,” Alan said. “Of course.”  
  
Dave stood up and followed the others out of the studio, and left Alan sitting at the mixing board feeling like he’d done something wrong. He sat there staring at the closed door until Gareth nudged him with an elbow.  
  
“Ready to kick some Synclavier arse?” he said.  
  
Alan nodded slowly, then snapped back to focus. They still had a long night ahead of them.  
  
“Better not let Dan hear you talk about his darling like that,” he said. “Or he’ll kick  _your_  arse.”  
  
  
  
+++  
  
  
  
Alan walked to the studio with Mart and Fletch the next afternoon. Martin usually got to the studio first, presumably because Alan slept so late, but Alan thought he liked to have the time alone to listen without an audience to whatever work had been done the night before, usually in his absence. Martin sometimes had specific ideas for Alan and Gareth when they got in, but more often he started off the day by making quiet, vague comments, and Alan found he had to read between the lines to realize when Martin didn’t like where a song was headed.  
  
It was an overcast afternoon, warm and humid. He suspected Fletch and Mart were badly hungover, because they weren’t talking at all on the walk over, and usually Fletch, at least, could hold up a conversation entirely on his own. When they turned onto Koethener Strausse, Alan nearly walked right into two men leaning up against the wall of the studio, arms wrapped around each other’s waists. They broke apart quickly, and Alan smiled and nodded at them as he stepped out of their way. Martin laughed.  
  
They were almost to the studio doors when Fletch snapped his fingers and said, “That reminds me. Dan’s friend, what’s his name, Lars? Ludwig? Well, whatever it is, he says he can get us in to Vagabund this weekend.”  
  
Martin perked up, but Alan said, “Vagabund?”  
  
“It’s a gay bar, or a nightclub, I guess,” Martin said. “But it’s supposed to be the best in Berlin. All the big names go there.”  
  
“Yeah, and it’s impossible to get in unless you know someone. Or unless you look like one of those blokes back there,” Fletch said, and pointed back over his shoulder. Alan glanced over – the two men were back in each other’s space again, and now that he got a careful look, he realized they were both strikingly good looking.  
  
“All right,” Alan said. He opened the door and nodded the other two inside.  
  
“Yeah? You’ll come out?” Martin said.  
  
“Sure, why not?” Alan said.  
  
“Slick’s leaving the cave!” Fletch said, and threw an arm over Alan’s shoulders. “We were ready to tie you up and drag you to a club one of these nights.”  
  
Alan rolled his eyes. It was true that he’d spent more time than even he’d expected in the studio, but he’d joined the others for drinks a few times, and he’d even been to a couple of shows. He wasn’t chained to the control room.  
  
Still, he had to admit that he hadn’t been able to see as much of Berlin as he’d hoped. He had yet to go out even once with his camera in the daylight. He’d wanted to visit the Tiergarten, and the Bauhaus Museum. But he hadn’t even managed to take a photo of the Wall, despite walking by it every day – twice a day, even.  
  
“A gay club, yeah? Will I have to put out?” Alan said, as they walked up the stairs to the second floor studios.  
  
Fletch waggled his eyebrows at him. “Only with the handsome bloke who gets you on the list,” he said.  
  
“So Lars-Ludwig’s good-looking, then?” Alan said, and laughed as Fletch gave him a good shove.  
  
The filed into the control room to find Dan sitting with Gareth at the console; Alan had forgotten he was due back that morning. “More Than a Party” was turned up to full volume and Dan’s eyes had the squinty, far-off look he wore when he was passing judgment on the so-called final version of a song. Alan had seen that look more than he cared for when they’d gone through five different “final” versions of “Get the Balance Right” before Dan had finally given them a firm nod of approval. Unfortunately, Alan still hadn’t figured out how to tell when Dan was pleased. For someone who was so straightforward when it came to business matters, he could be damned poker-faced in the studio.  
  
Martin and Fletch exchanged nervous glances, and Gareth – who was anxious and fidgety even when he was relaxed – looked close to panic, gripping the arms of his chair so his knuckles turned white. Alan stood very still while the song played. When the last train-tracks sample had finally faded away, he took a deep breath and held it. No one said a word. Dan blinked twice, which seemed to snap him out of some kind of stupor, and then glanced over at Alan and the others.  
  
“Oh good, you’re here,” he said, and reached past Gareth to flip off the speakers. “Where’s Dave?”  
  
“Er, he’ll be here in a bit,” Fletch said.  
  
“Good, good.” He clapped his hands together and said, “So, what’s next? Gareth said ‘Love, In Itself’ was giving you a hard time?”  
  
“Yeah, a bit,” Martin said. He glanced at Alan and jerked his head toward Dan, but Alan just shrugged. He wasn’t going to ask – he wasn’t convinced Dan really liked him just yet. Martin frowned at Alan, but he turned to Dan and said, “So it’s all right, then? The song?”  
  
“The song?” Dan said, frowning in confusion, then he perked up and smiled. “Oh, ‘More Than a Party.’ Yeah, you’ve got it, lads. Well done.”  
  
Alan breathed a sigh of relief, and Fletch cheered and slapped both him and Martin on the back. “That’s grand,” he said. “So what’s for lunch?”  
  
  
  
+++  
  
  
  
They sent Fletch down to the cafe in the Hansa basement, and Alan and Mart joined the other two at the console. Alan and Gareth had managed to get the Synclavier running smoothly again the night before, and they’d spent another couple of hours laying down a few more tracks that luckily fit together with little hassle.  
  
“We should get started on the vocals,” Alan said. He glanced at Martin, who caught his eye and nodded.  
  
“You don’t want to get the horns in first?” Gareth said.  
  
“No, I’d rather build the horns around the vocals,” Alan said. He was talking with authority, but both Dan and Gareth were frowning at him – they knew he was full of it. Alan sighed and said, “Look, we should do the vocals before Dave gets here.”  
  
Dan winced and nodded in understanding, but Gareth raised his eyebrows and asked why.  
  
“He hates it when we cut up his vocals,” Martin said. “Says it’s soul-crushing or something.”  
  
Dave hadn’t said those exact words, at least not that Alan had heard, but it had been obvious that he was upset while they were mixing the vocals in “More Than a Party.” It was standard practice to record several takes of a singer’s vocals and then splice together the best bits from each one for the final song. But if Dave knew that, he still wasn’t happy about it. He’d sat miserably in a corner of the couch, occasionally throwing up his hands in exasperation when they added a new vocal track, or insisting that one version was clearly better than another – really, just being generally belligerent in a very un-Dave-like fashion. Finally he’d called them all “heartless wankers” and stormed out of the control room and into the studio, where he’d spent more than an hour sulking with the door closed.  
  
Alan knew he was sensitive about his voice. Or maybe sensitive wasn’t right– he was tied to it. Dave  _was_  his voice, when it came to Depeche Mode. That wasn’t really fair – Alan certainly valued Dave’s role in the band for more than just his vocals – but it was understandable. Alan thought he might feel the same in Dave’s position.  
  
“Dave usually gets here around 6,” Alan said. “We can get a good start by then, maybe even finish.”  
  
Gareth nodded slowly and went about setting up the vocal tracks. “So,” he said, smiling to himself, “that’s why Dave was having a little temper tantrum last week.”  
  
Alan studied him for a moment and said, “You’re really not as bright as you look, are you?” Everyone, including Gareth, laughed.  
  
  
  
+++  
  
  
  
They were playing back the song with the vocals nearly finished when Dave showed up a little after 6. He wasn’t carrying his usual bag of snacks, which was disappointing because Alan was starving. Fletch had brought some sandwiches up earlier but after Martin had found a stray cube of something meat-like on his, Alan had settled for just a bag of crisps for lunch.  
  
Gareth shot him a nervous look when Dave walked in, but Alan ignored him and leaned back in his chair.  
  
“’Bout time you got in, Gahan,” he said. “Where’s my bloody burrito?”  
  
Dave laughed hard, and if there’d been any tension in the room, it was gone in an instant. Burritos had become a bit of a running joke in the studio, after Alan and Martin had developed a fondness for them on the American tour. They were delicious with beans and cheese and hot sauce – and impossible to find in London or Berlin. Alan had attempted to instruct the Hansa restaurant chef about burritos, but he’d lost the bloke somewhere around trying to translate “tortilla.”  
  
Dave took his usual spot at the console and spun around in his chair so he could fiddle with the knobs and switches on an older, wall-mounted amplifier. Alan watched him for a minute while the song played. Dave’s face was in profile and it was hard to tell what he was thinking, but his mouth was turned down a little.  
  
The song ended and Alan turned back to the mixing board. With his back to Dave he said casually, “Nice job on that one, Dave. Let’s move on to the horns, yeah?”  
  
Gareth agreed and set about lining up the new track. Alan didn’t look back, but a moment later Dave rolled up beside him.  
  
They worked for another hour before Alan couldn’t take the hunger anymore and ducked down to the basement for a noodle dish that the cook promised was vegetarian. Alan poked his fork around in it anyway, but he finally gave up the chase and took his Styrofoam box back up to the control room. Dan and Gareth were working on the guitar bit in the middle eight, so Alan took his dinner to the studio.  
  
The lights were off and the room was dim in the last of the evening light. Alan could see the string of lights from the top of the Wall through the window, and a guard tower far off to the side. It made him feeling like he was being watched. It was unsettling, but oddly comforting too.  
  
“I heard this place is haunted.”  
  
Alan startled and turned around. “Fuck, you nearly gave me a heart attack, Dave,” he said. Dave was sitting on an amp near the piano, and Alan had practically walked right by him when he’d come in.  
  
“It’s true,” Dave said. He raised his eyebrows and looked all around the studio. “Sometimes when I’m in here alone, I feel like someone’s staring at me.”  
  
“It’s the bloody guards on the Wall. They probably  _are_  watching you,” Alan said. He took a bite of noodles, which tasted greasy and stale, but thankfully meat-free.  
  
Dave shook his head. “No, I hear weird things too. And last week the mic kept turning off and on all on its own.”  
  
“That was probably Fletch trying to freak you out,” Alan said. “He has way too much time on his hands if you ask me.”  
  
Dave laughed, but he let the subject of the so-called haunting drop. He stood up and stretched, and his shirt rode up a little, exposing a slim patch of his stomach. Alan stared for a moment before he realized what he was doing and quickly turned back to the window. Dave joined him there, and leaned over to sniff dramatically at his noodles.  
  
“What the bloody hell is that?”  
  
“Dunno, but it doesn’t have meat,” Alan said.  
  
“I think you’d be better off with meat, Al. Something’s wrong with that smell.”  
  
Alan looked at a forkful of noodles and sighed sadly before sticking it back in the box and tossing his dinner into a rubbish bin. “You’re probably right.”  
  
From the control room Alan could hear the faint twang of Martin’s guitar sample. He walked across the studio and poked his head in – Dan and Gareth were still hunkered over the mixing board, and Martin and Fletch were gone, probably in the kitchen for a cigarette, since Dan didn’t like them smoking in the control room. Alan closed the studio door and walked over to the piano. He hadn’t played in ages – in fact, other than recording a few one- or two-note samples, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d sat down at an actual piano and not a synthesizer.  
  
He sat on the bench and just looked at the keys for a moment, and then with just the barest murmur of a melody in his head he played. It was a little rough, but Alan smiled to himself anyway, pleased that his hands still knew what to do, dancing over the keys like they had minds of their own. It wasn’t a song he’d ever played before on piano, but Alan had always had a talent for plucking out melodies he’d only heard once or twice, and this one he’d heard many more times than that.  
  
Dave appeared at his side a moment later, his eyes wide and impressed. Alan stopped after a minute, feeling flushed and happy. Sometimes it was good to just play for the joy of it. Dave gave a low whistle and sat next to him on the bench.  
  
“When’d you learn that?” Dave said.  
  
“Learn it?” Alan stared at his hands in his lap and shrugged. “Nothing to learn, really. It’s just ‘Love, In Itself.’ We’ve heard it a hundred times just today.”  
  
“Yeah, but that was different, what you just did.” Dave stared at him. “You haven’t been practicing that every night after the rest of us go home, have you?”  
  
Alan rolled his eyes. “You caught me. I was hoping to win your affection with my masterful improvisation skills, but it’s no use now.”  
  
Dave didn’t laugh. He just regarded Alan carefully, and Alan got the intense feeling he was being judged all over again, like the day he’d auditioned for the band. Alan remembered that day, and how they’d all watched him: Fletch with grudging respect, Martin looking politely interested, and Dave. He’d sat on the edge of his seat the entire time, like he was watching a performance and couldn’t tear his eyes away. It had been unnerving and exciting, all at once.  
  
Alan felt that way now, like he was on stage, and it sent a thrill through him, making the hairs on his arms and the back of his neck stand on edge.  
  
“We should record that,” Dave said finally.  
  
Before Alan could reply, Dave had got up and opened the door to the control room. He disappeared and came back a moment later with Dan and Martin, and Fletch right behind them.  
  
“Play it again,” Dave said, and moved to stand next to the piano.  
  
“Dave-”  
  
“Shut it,” Dave said. He nodded at the piano. “C’mon, mate. Trust me.”  
  
Alan sighed dramatically, but in truth he didn’t mind. He started again, and the notes came out just a little different this time, because his hands had already worked out something new, and better. He was only a few bars into the song when Dave came in singing.  
  
His voice was such a surprise that Alan almost stopped, and he did fumble a key. But he kept playing even as he looked up to watch Dave, who was standing off to the side and singing, in a low, sultry voice Alan had never heard before. It was mesmerizing, really, the way his words slurred just slightly into one another, which only made them sound more personal. It felt like Dave was singing just to him, in this haunted room.  
  
Alan looked away because he needed to keep an eye on the keys. He hadn’t played with someone in years, and he’d forgotten the rush of it, the way energy crackled between pianist and singer when everything fell into just the right place. He felt his pulse rushing and his breath come faster. When the song let up for a moment and Alan glanced up to take Dave’s cue, their eyes met and Alan felt a smile pull at his face, completely without thought. Dave smiled back and took a breath for the next note, and Alan met him perfectly, fingers going exactly where they needed to be. When Dave’s part was over Alan kept playing because he wasn’t done yet – he was lost in this, and he trusted his hands to know when it was time to stop.  
  
The room burst into applause when he was done. He ducked his head, feeling uncharacteristically embarrassed. He didn’t consider himself much of a performer, usually – he much preferred crafting the music than playing for a crowd. But sometimes there was nothing better than a good audience.  
  
“That was really good, Dave,” he said, before anyone else could say anything.  
  
“You were both fantastic,” Fletch said. He grinned from the doorway and turned to Dan. “We’ve got to record that, yeah?”  
  
Dan looked around the room and shrugged. “I’m not sure what we’ll do with it, but all right.”  
  
Martin glanced at Alan and raised his eyebrows. “That’s a riff from the middle eight, right? Should I-”  
  
“Yeah,” Alan said. “Get your guitar.”  
  
Fletch, naturally, was given the job of starting the drum machine once Dan had found a preset that would suit the song. It took Gareth a few minutes to set up the equipment, and then they were recording. They got it in one take, even though Alan flubbed a few notes – Dan said it gave the song character.  
  
Alan wondered if anyone noticed that his eyes were on Dave the entire time.  
  
  



	3. Chapter 3

_Took a plane across the world  
Got in a car  
When I had reached my destination  
I hadn’t gone far_  
-And Then...  
  
  
  
“Love, In Itself” wrapped up quickly after the band’s impromptu recording of the lounge lizard mix, as Fletch had dubbed it. Somehow the acoustic performance seemed to have cleared Alan’s head, and he felt much more confident helping Dan and Gareth with the final mixing of the real song. Or maybe it had simply been close to done anyway.  
  
Alan didn’t actually like the finished song all that much, but like everyone else he agreed it was a good candidate for a single off the album. The song was catchy as anything – almost painfully so – but with just enough drama to set it apart from every other pop song on the radio, Alan hoped.  
  
They started next on one of Alan’s songs, which was mostly a relief. Martin was obviously more at ease in the control room when they weren’t working on one of his songs. He was helpful and pleasant to the point that Alan wondered just how unbearable Martin found the process of mixing his own songs.  
  
“The hammer sound should come in here, yeah? Start of the second verse?” Martin pointed at a spot on the monitor.  
  
“Not quite, a few beats in,” Gareth said. He nodded his head: three, four beats, then he flipped a switch and the hammer sound joined the mix.  
  
Martin smiled and said, “Yeah, that’s good. Al?”  
  
Alan nodded and took a drag off his cigarette. It was good that Martin was relaxing in the control room a bit, because Alan felt oddly detached from the songs he’d written. He privately wondered if that was because he knew they were rubbish and not worth overly much of his time and effort. He was certainly feeling more careless with his two songs than any of Mart’s, and he was looking forward to finishing them and moving on to “Pipeline” or “Everything Counts,” which so far were his favorites on the album.  
  
“Don’t let Dan catch you with that,” Martin said, as Alan tapped his cigarette into a Styrofoam coffee cup.  
  
Alan rolled his eyes and took a deep drag and exhaled a thin curl of smoke. “He’s meeting with that producer from Hamburg again. He’ll be at least another hour.”  
  
Alan tucked a leg under himself and leaned back in his chair. Dan seemed to be making good use of his time in Berlin to meet with local big wigs. Alan wondered if he was hoping to sign some new bands – Berlin was a ripe market, especially in electronic music. Alan figured adding to Mute’s repertoire could only benefit Depeche Mode, and he was curious about the Berlin music scene himself, even if he hadn’t had much time to explore it since he’d been here.  
  
The control room door opened and Alan instinctively sat up quickly to stub out his cigarette, but it was only Fletch. Martin laughed.  
  
“What’re you laughing at?” Fletch said defensively. Alan couldn’t blame him – if someone was laughing, even Martin, there was a good chance it was at Fletch’s expense.  
  
Not that Alan was going to allay his paranoia. “You’re supposed to knock before you come in,” he said.  
  
“My hands were full with lunch for you ungrateful lot,” Fletch said, and deposited three sandwiches on the console. Alan chose not to point out that Fletch had managed to open the door all right, and that he had two perfectly good feet for knocking on a door.  
  
Fletch carried his own lunch to the couch while Alan and Martin unwrapped their sandwiches. Alan was two bites in when the strangest aroma filled the room – like burned cheese with a greasy, sweet odor underneath.  
  
“What the bloody hell is that smell?” Martin said, putting down his sandwich. He looked around the room for the source and stopped at Fletch. “Is that your lunch?”  
  
Fletch had an open box on his lap and he was chewing with such obvious pleasure that it was funny, and a little disturbing. He nodded vigorously and swallowed his mouthful. “It’s Toast Hawaii,” he said, and dug his fork in for another huge bite.  
  
Mart looked at Alan, who just shrugged. He’d never heard of it either.  
  
“What’s Toast Hawaii?” Alan said.  
  
“I’m not sure, really,” Fletch said. He poked his fork around the box. “It’s some kind of cheese on toast, with ham, I think, and a big slice of pineapple.”  
  
Martin and Alan made disgusted faces at each other, and Gareth just laughed.  
  
“That sounds horrible,” Martin said.  
  
“It’s the best thing I’ve ever eaten,” Fletch said, and shoved a large, gooey forkful into his mouth.  
  
Alan raised his eyebrows and watched Fletch for a moment – the bloke really knew how to enjoy a meal – then glanced at Martin and shrugged. It didn’t smell too terrible, and anyway, at least it would mask the smell of Alan’s cigarette. He lit another and gestured back to the mixing board.  
  
“What’s next?”  
  
They worked steadily for another hour before Dan arrived, looking sweaty and uncomfortable and in an entirely unpleasant mood. His collared shirt clung to his back with sweat and his face was an alarming shade of red. Summer had arrived fully formed and early in Berlin, and apparently the weather did not suit him. Alan, a born and bred London lad, found it rather a nice change of pace. He was wearing shorts in May – what could be better?  
  
Dan frowned as they played him what they’d done so far with “Landscape Is Changing.” When the music stopped he leaned back in his chair and folded his arms over his chest with a grimace.  
  
“What’s that smell in here?” he said. It was not at all the reaction Alan had been expecting.  
  
“It’s Fletch’s lunch,” Martin said, nodding at Fletch on the couch.  
  
“Hey!”  
  
“No, that’s not it,” Dan said. “Who’s been smoking in the studio? What did I tell you lads – this is a studio, not a bloody nightclub.”  
  
Alan cringed, wondering if he should just plead guilty now – he wasn’t sure he could count on Fletch and Mart to cover for him, although it was a good sign that Fletch hadn’t just pointed at him and yelled “there’s your man!” But Dan just rubbed his hands over his face and let the matter drop.  
  
“This isn’t working,” Dan said, and for one absurd moment Alan thought he was talking about the  _band_ , then Dan gestured at the monitor. “The horns are all wrong, and the hammer sound is too much. It needs to be taken down three or four levels, at least.”  
  
Alan groaned and leaned his head against the back of his chair. It wasn’t as though he disagreed – he just wasn’t in the mood to fix it. At his side, he heard Martin sigh deeply. “The Landscape Is Changing” started up again and Alan closed his eyes, trying to focus on the song and maybe figure out why he couldn’t bring himself to care about it at the moment. The song was only halfway through when it stopped abruptly. Alan opened his eyes.  
  
“That’s it,” Dan said. “Get out of here. All of you.”  
  
“What?” Alan said, sitting up sharply in his chair.  
  
“When was the last time any of you had a day off?” Dan said. Alan shared a look with Martin – all of them had been to the studio for at least a few hours every day, even Dave and Fletch. “That’s what I thought. Now get your ugly mugs out of here.”  
  
Alan felt like he should argue, if only for show, but if an afternoon of traipsing around Berlin like a bloody tourist – or even just zoning out in front of the telly in his hotel room – seemed like heaven compared to another few hours in the studio, he probably didn’t have much of an argument. In fact, suddenly the very idea of getting out of the studio – in  _daylight_  – was sounding positively delightful. He glanced at Martin, who gave him a little nod, and they both stood up.   
  
“Not you,” Dan said, when Gareth looked like he was about to get up too. Alan gave him a sympathetic smile, and Gareth fell back into his chair with dramatic flair, but he grinned back at him. Dan waved them all away, shooing them like they were small children. “Go on, boys.”  
  
Alan opened the control room door to find Dave standing just outside, hand raised to knock. He stared baffled at Alan, and Alan just laughed, caught him by the elbow, and turned him round the other way. “C’mon,” he said. “You’re going to show me Berlin.”  
  
  
  
+++  
  
  
  
Dave took Dan’s dismissal in stride. Fletch and Mart left them at the studio – Fletch wanted to check out some music shops in the neighborhood and Martin was thinking about buying another guitar from a man down the street who made instruments by hand.  
  
Alan hadn’t actually meant to demand that Dave spend the afternoon with him in Berlin, but Dave latched onto the plan with gusto. As they walked back to the hotel so Alan could pick up his camera, he talked fervently about all of the places he wanted them to go.  
  
“We’ve only got the afternoon,” Alan said with a laugh, but Dave just waved him off. “So is this what you’ve been doing with all your free time? Going to museums and tourist traps?”  
  
Dave nodded enthusiastically. “But I still haven’t got over to Charlottenburg. They have a photography museum there, you know.”  
  
“Yeah?” Alan said. “I wanted to see Tiergarten too.”  
  
“Sure, it’s all in the same district, anyway.”  
  
“And shopping,” Alan said, remembering suddenly his plans to liven up his wardrobe. “I need clothes.”  
  
Dave turned and gave Alan a once-over, then grinned and threw an arm over his shoulders. “We’ll head over to the Ku’damm for shopping. You’re in luck,” he said. “I have excellent taste in clothes.”  
  
It was a pleasant enough walk to the Charlottenburg district, despite the heat and humidity. They were both wearing shorts and T-shirts and Alan was thoroughly enjoying the sunshine on his face and bare arms and legs. He carried his camera bag on his shoulder with enough film to last him a week.  
  
Dave was an enthusiastic if unreliable tour guide – he had something to say about every other sandwich shop, street sculpture and fire hydrant they passed. And the people. Dave loved to provide running commentary on the Berliners they passed – plus the tourists, the European businessmen, the stray dogs.  
  
“That one looks a bit like Fletch, yeah?” Dave said, pointing at a large and distinctly ginger-colored dog at the end of a leash.  
  
“Sort of.” Alan squinted and pretended to study it for a moment. “They’ve got the same nose.”  
  
The owner glared at them as they passed, laughing and pointing at her poor Fletch-like dog.  
  
Alan nixed the museums when they got to Charlottenburg, because the last thing he needed was another afternoon spent indoors, quiet and focused. Instead they explored the grounds around Charlottenburg Palace, which were bustling with tour groups and families starting their summer holidays. Alan and Dave threaded through the crowds, Dave’s hand occasionally tugging at Alan’s shirt when a group threatened to separate them, or when he wanted to stop and point something out. Alan stopped to take several photos, trying to focus on unusual subjects – the delicate hands of a sculpture, an artist with his easel set up in the center of the main square.  
  
The palace was magnificent, but at the end of the day it was just a palace, and Alan had seen plenty in his life. After half an hour he suggested they walk over to Tiergarten.  
  
The park was huge and full of color, and Alan stopped often to take pictures as they walked along one of the main boulevards. A couple was sitting on a bench up ahead, holding hands, their faces nearly touching as they talked. The woman reached up to brush a strand of hair off the man’s forehead, and Alan thought of Jeri. She’d die if she saw his hair now – he couldn’t be bothered to style it himself, not when he was going to be spending all his time in a studio, anyway. So his hair was flat and almost entirely gel-free – dreadful, Jeri would call it.  
  
“Do you miss Jo?” Alan said. He raised his camera to try and take a picture of the couple on the bench without being obvious about it.  
  
“A bit,” Dave said. Alan turned to look at him over his shoulder. Dave had his hands in his pockets and he was watching the same couple. “How about Jeri?”  
  
Alan shrugged. “Not really,” he said. “I was gone most of last year anyway, and I haven’t really had time to miss her since we’ve been here.”  
  
It was true, and he felt bad about it. He’d talked to Jeri on the phone a couple of times in the past week and a half, just to catch up. They’d been dating about a year, and she’d asked him to move in with her and Jason, but Alan wasn’t sure if that would be fair to any of them. He loved her, and he loved her son, and he thought he could imagine a life with them. But sometimes he found them drifting to the back of his mind when he was on the road, or now, focused as he was on the music and the band.  
  
“Jo wants to come for a visit next week,” Dave said.  
  
Alan raised an eyebrow. “What’d you say?”  
  
“That it was only a few more weeks,” Dave said, “and that she’d probably hate it here since I spend most of my time with you boring blokes anyway.”  
  
“So you lied,” Alan said with a grin. Dave gave him a small smile, but he was looking down at his feet and Alan got the impression he felt guilty. “Hey, you’re probably right. She’d just be bored and trying to keep you out of the studio all day, and then you’d miss all the fun.”  
  
In truth, Alan was relieved Jo wouldn’t be coming to Berlin, although he couldn’t have said why. He’d liked her all right, the few times he’d met her, even if she seemed a bit shy and awkward. Alan would have pictured Dave with someone loud and spirited, obnoxious, even. He flashed for a moment on the image of Dave and Jeri as a couple, and he had to laugh out loud. Jeri would eat Dave for dinner.  
  
“What’s so funny?” Dave said.  
  
“I was imagining you and Jeri dating.”  
  
Dave laughed too, which was oddly gratifying. “No offense, mate, but your girlfriend scares me,” Dave said. “I think she’s too smart for me anyway.”  
  
“She thinks she’s smarter than she really is,” Alan said. It was mostly true. Jeri really was very intelligent, which Alan found incredibly attractive, but she wasn’t modest about it in the slightest. Alan recognized they were quite a bit alike in that sense. It was probably one of the reasons they got along well – and also a major cause of their worst arguments. Some days nothing was worse than two people with high opinions of themselves trying to make a point of it.  
  
They started walking again, heading toward the Victory Column in the middle of the park. “You think you’ll marry her someday?” Dave said.  
  
“Fuck, I have no idea,” Alan said. “Don’t know if I ever want to get married, actually. I’m not sure I’m cut out for it.”  
  
Dave stared at him. “Really? What about having a family someday? You don’t want kids?”  
  
“I don’t know.” Alan kicked a stone off to the side. “Maybe. But not any time soon. Definitely not while I’m in a band, touring and all that.”  
  
Dave didn’t say anything for a while, but as they walked up to the Victory Column, Alan craning his neck to see the golden statue on top, he said, “I think I’ll marry Jo. I want to marry Jo.”  
  
Alan was tempted to ask if Dave was sure about that, because he didn’t much sound it. But Dave sounded very small somehow – like it hadn’t been easy for him to say the words out loud, which was strange, because Alan had heard him talk enthusiastically about marriage before. For a second, with startling clarity, Alan heard what Dave meant: he wanted to want Jo, and all the trappings of marriage and family that came with her.  
  
Alan could relate, to a degree. He was in many ways the black sheep in his own family. His two brothers had been married by the time they’d been his age, and each with a child too. They’d followed in both their parents’ footsteps – one on his way to becoming a concert-hall pianist, the other a music teacher. Five years behind them, Alan sometimes felt like he kept getting everything just slightly wrong. When he settled down with a woman, she was older, and already a mother. When he picked a career in music, it was in a market his parents couldn’t relate to. He hadn’t talked to his father in more than a year, just to avoid the arguments.  
  
It was a difficult life sometimes, and lonely. But Alan knew it was the only way he could live, and he knew he was making the right choices for himself. He wasn’t sure Dave had the same confidence.  
  
“She’d be lucky to have you, mate,” Alan said sincerely. Dave looked down from the statue and blinked at Alan in surprise. “I mean it. But give yourself time to figure it out first, yeah? Make sure it’s what you really want and all that.”  
  
“Yeah,” Dave said, smiling brightly. “No rush, right? We’ve got all the time in the world.”  
  
Sometimes Alan wasn’t so sure of that. But he grinned and bumped Dave’s shoulder with his own. “Sure,  _you_  do. I’ve got two years on you. I’m practically an old maid at this point.”  
  
“Yeah, I’ve been meaning to tell you, I think Dan’s got some cream or something for those wrinkles around your eyes,” Dave said.  
  
“Arsehole,” Alan said, and smacked Dave on the back of the head. “Come on. Let’s get one of these American tourists to take a photo of us in front of the Victory Column.”  
  
“Ah, cover art. Good idea,” Dave said. “Mart’ll love it.”  
  
  
  
+++  
  
  
  
It was nearing 5 when Alan remembered that this was the night the band had plans to go to the club Fletch had suggested. They wouldn’t be heading out until late, but if ever there was a time he’d need new clothes in Berlin, tonight would be it.  
  
He thanked the nice American man for taking their picture, and turned to Dave. “Time for shopping. I need something for Vagabund.”  
  
“That’s tonight?” Dave said. He looked Alan up and down and cringed.  
  
“Well I’m not planning to wear  _this_ ,” Alan said. “But I’ve never been to a gay club. Have you?”  
  
“Sure,” Dave said. “Mart loves ‘em. Says they’re a lot more fun than the straight clubs because the music’s better and the drinks are cheaper. But you’ve definitely got to dress the part.”  
  
“Arseless chaps and leather vests?” Alan said.  
  
Dave laughed. “Leather something, anyway.”  
  
They wandered out of the park and over to Kurfurstendamm, one of the trendier shopping districts in Berlin. Alan didn’t fancy himself much of a clothes horse, but he liked to at least try to look good, and he thought he knew what suited him. Still, he’d never spent much money on his wardrobe and he could tell right off that the shops on Ku’damm were a bit out of his usual price range.  
  
“Isn’t there a shopping mall or something we could go to?” he said quietly to Dave as they walked down the main street.  
  
“Don’t be daft,” Dave said. “You’re not going to find leather trousers at the Europa Center.”  
  
“I’m wearing leather trousers?”  
  
“Yeah, and a fitted shirt,” Dave said, giving him an appraising look. “Maybe something that shows off a little chest hair too. Do you have any chest hair?”  
  
“I’m not trying to get a date, you know,” Alan said.  
  
“You say that now, but you haven’t seen Mart in leather shorts and suspenders.”  
  
“Oh, tell me more,” Alan said, holding a hand dramatically over his heart.  
  
“And Fletch in his S & M regalia. Chastity belt, whip-”  
  
“Okay, now you’ve crossed a line,” Alan said.  
  
“-corset, spiked heels-” Just as Alan was about to slap him about the head Dave stopped suddenly. “Here’s the place,” he said and pushed open the door of a small shop.  
  
It was a type of store Alan had heard Jeri call a boutique, but he’d never actually been inside one before. The clothes were arranged in artful, color-coordinated stacks, or hung on two long rows of racks on either side of the store. There were no helpful mannequins wearing pre-arranged outfits, and Alan was afraid to touch the clothes, never mind look at a price tag. Even the hangers looked expensive.  
  
“Let’s try somewhere else,” Alan said quietly to Dave. The clerk at the other end of the store had barely glanced at them when they’d walked in, but Alan still felt self-conscious in his sweaty shorts and T-shirt. He started back toward the door.  
  
Dave laughed and grabbed onto his wrist to tug him back into the shop. “Don’t tell me Alan Wilder is scared of a bloody boutique?”  
  
“I’m not scared,” Alan hissed. “But I’m not paying 200 quid for a jumper.”  
  
He had no idea if the jumpers cost 200 pounds – or if this place even sold something as boring and middle-class as a jumper. But it was obvious the place was out of his league. Dave didn’t seem to agree, and dragged him to a table at the front of the shop. He picked up a shirt and shook it out, ignoring the glare the clerk shot them, then plucked out the price tag and showed it to Alan.  
  
“See? A hundred mark. That’s, what, 30 quid?”  
  
“More like 35,” Alan said, but Dave had a point. It was actually very affordable. More than he’d typically spend on a single shirt, but it was obviously well made, and something he could get a lot of use out of.  
  
“Here, I bet this one’s your size,” Dave said, plucking another shirt from the middle of the same pile. “C’mon, let’s look at the green ones over there. It’s a good color on you.”  
  
“It is?” Alan said. He was playing dumb – he knew green suited him. He was just surprised Dave had noticed.  
  
Five minutes later, Alan had an armful of garments and Dave was pushing him into a changing room at the back of the shop. The clerk had finally taken an interest in them, although he seemed more wary than eager for a sale, like he expected them to make a break for it at any time. The first shirt didn’t fit quite right – it was too loose in the shoulders and bagged strangely at his hips – but the second one looked like it had been made for him. It was a deep, forest green, with buttons up the front and sleeves cut a little shorter than he usually wore. Alan turned around to look at it from behind when a pair of trousers were thrust between the curtains of the changing room.  
  
“These were the only leather trousers they had, but I think they’ll fit,” Dave said from the other side of the curtain.  
  
Alan took the trousers and couldn’t resist holding them up to his nose. Vegetarian or not, Alan thought there was nothing quite like the smell of good leather. He held them up against his legs and thought they looked close enough to his size. He very deliberately did not look at the price tag.  
  
It was tough work getting the trousers on because they were stiff and tight, and they wanted to cling to his knees and thighs. But when he finally got them up and buttoned, Alan was surprised to find that they were actually pretty comfortable. And he looked fantastic in them. He couldn’t resist turning around and lifting up the shirt to get a better look at his bum in the mirror. He wiggled it back and forth for good measure – and nearly screamed when he heard a low whistle in return. Alan jerked up and saw Dave’s face framed in a gap between the curtains.  
  
“That’ll do,” Dave said. He was staring at Alan’s bum in the mirror, and Alan hastily lowered the tail of the shirt.  
  
“You think?” Alan said. “They’re not too flamboyant?”  
  
“Oh, they’re flamboyant. You’ll be the belle of the ball at Vagabund.” Alan felt his face heat up in horror and embarrassment, and Dave hastily said, “I’m messing with you, Al. You look great. Here, let’s see something.”  
  
Dave stepped into the changing room with him and before Alan could stop him he was unbuttoning the trousers. The room wasn’t small, but it wasn’t meant for two grown men to share either, and with Dave’s hands so close to his crotch Alan suddenly found it a little hard to breathe in the tight space. He tried to swat Dave’s hands away.  
  
“What’re you-”  
  
“Here, now tuck the shirt in,” Dave said, when the trousers were undone. Alan rolled his eyes but did as he was told. When he’d stuffed the shirt into the trousers he did up the buttons himself.  
  
Dave put his hands on Alan’s shoulders and turned him around so he was facing the mirror. He left them there, and for a moment all Alan could see was Dave’s face next to his, and his fingers curled over his arms, just holding him carefully. He met Dave’s eyes in the mirror, and Dave grinned at him.  
  
“Much better,” he said, and Alan finally looked at himself.  
  
Dave was right – with the shirt tucked in his waist was trim, and his chest and shoulders looked strong. He’d always been more wiry than muscular, but no one would ever know it from the way the shirt defined his torso and the trousers clung to his thighs.  
  
“Let’s see the bum again,” Dave said, and turned Alan around again so they were facing each other. Alan looked back over his shoulder and grinned. “C’mon, don’t hold back. Give it a little shake.”  
  
Alan laughed and shook his arse again just for fun. He had to admit that the trousers were flattering – he’d never had much of a bum to speak of, but that was a very fine arse attached to his backside in the mirror. Alan turned around to say as much to Dave, and found himself nearly nose-to-nose with him. His breath hitched in surprise.  
  
They stared wordlessly at one another for a long moment. Alan felt Dave’s breath on his mouth, and he licked his lips without thinking. He realized Dave’s hands had moved down to his hips at some point, and they felt warm and heavy, and strangely familiar.  
  
Dave broke the spell first. He backed up a step and Alan immediately missed the weight of his hands.  
  
“You should get the trousers,” Dave said. His voice sounded a little hoarse and he cleared his throat. “The shirt too. And you’ll need some boots.”  
  
“Yeah,” Alan said, looking down at his feet. He blinked and mentally shook himself – he had no idea what had just happened, or if anything had happened at all, really. “Yeah.”  
  
“Good,” Dave said. “Okay. I’ll meet you out there, then.” And he disappeared, closing the curtains behind him.  
  
Alan took a deep breath. He felt oddly shaky and his fingers seemed thick and clumsy as he undid the buttons of the trousers. Thankfully they were easier coming off than going on, and by the time he was back into his old clothes Alan was feeling considerably calmer. He folded up the shirt and trousers, and added to the stack another two shirts he hadn’t bothered to try on but looked like they might fit. He took another breath and walked back into the shop.  
  
Dave was at the front counter, studying something under the glass top. He looked up when Alan dumped the clothes on the counter and grinned.  
  
“Do I even want to know how much those trousers are going to set me back?” Alan said.  
  
“Stop your bitching. You’re starting to sound like Fletch,” Dave said.  
  
“Hey, watch your mouth.”  
  
“Trust me,” Dave said. “You won’t regret this.”  
  
Alan thought back to the strange, electric moment they’d just shared, and he wondered.  
  
“I hope not,” he said, and pulled out his wallet.

 


	4. Chapter 4

_No sex, no consequence, no sympathy  
You’re good enough to heat_  
-Two Minute Warning  
  
  
  
Alan arrived back at his hotel room laden with shopping bags, having spent more money on clothes in one afternoon than he had in the previous year – possibly the previous two years. But he felt good about his purchases. Jeri would probably be annoyed that he’d gone shopping without her. She’d been trying to get him to update his wardrobe but he’d been resisting, always saying he wanted to wait longer, until he had some money saved up, or this Depeche Mode gig felt more secure. Spending the money today, he thought, was equal parts confidence in the new album – and convincing himself that the band was worth the gamble. Sometimes faith was a good thing, he kept having to remind himself.  
  
They’d visited two more shops in Ku’damm before calling it a day, and Alan had bought boots and two more pairs of trousers and more shirts than he cared to admit. Dave had stayed out of the changing room, after their awkward encounter in the first shop – and awkward was what Alan was calling it. If he’d felt a rush of something more – something he couldn’t quite describe – well, he’d chalk it up to missing Jeri. Or at least missing a warm body in his bed.  
  
Alan considered the idea of inviting Jeri to Berlin for a few days, but dismissed the thought almost as soon as it occurred to him. He’d meant what he’d said to Dave, about Jo being bored here, and he knew Jeri would feel the same. Only it’d be worse with her, because in truth Jeri didn’t particularly like the rest of the band. She thought herself more sophisticated and intelligent than Dave and the others – she hated it when Alan was lumped in with the “boys from Basildon” in magazine articles – and it didn’t help that she was a good decade older than all of them. And an artist who detested pop songs.  
  
She also stubbornly refused to forgive the band for not bringing in Alan earlier, and letting him record A Broken Frame with them. That slight had been tough for Alan too, but he at least understood their reasoning. It was daft and short-sighted reasoning – they’d chosen to put out a mediocre album on their own, instead of taking advantage of his skills – but Alan appreciated their desire to prove themselves. It had taken him some time to get over the sting of rejection, but in the end, grudges were just a waste of his valuable time.  
  
Alan ordered a cheese sandwich and chips from room service and found a nice game of cricket on the television. The reception was terrible, but the sandwich wasn’t bad for a German hotel. It was after 9 by the time he finished dinner and Alan stood up and stretched and tried to decide if he had time for a nap. They were meeting in the lobby at 11, so probably he should shower first, especially since it was going to take him at least 45 minutes to get his hair right.  
  
Fletch was already in the lobby when Alan got there at five after 11, but he was alone, the ginger top of his distinctive hair peeking over the top of a high-backed chair. Alan came up behind him and tousled his hair, and made a show of wiping his hands on the inside of his jacket as he took a seat opposite him.  
  
“And you call  _me_  Slick,” Alan said.  
  
“Hey, watch it,” Fletch said. He carefully patted at his hair, his eyes rolled up as though to see what he was doing. “That took me an hour and a half to get right.”  
  
Alan crossed an ankle over his knee and leaned back in the chair. “Next time give Mart a call. He’s good with the-” Alan waggled a hand over the top of his own head “-poufy thing.”  
  
“It’s not poufy, is it?” Fletch said. He squinted into the glass-fronted table between them, trying to see his reflection, and frowned. “Oi, it  _is_  poufy.”  
  
“C’mon, I’m just taking the piss,” Alan said. “It looks good. My own mum would say you look delicious.”  
  
“Yeah?” Fletch said with a small smile.  
  
Alan rolled his eyes. Only Fletch could be pleased by making someone else’s mum happy with his hair. “Yeah. All the boys’ll love you best.”  
  
“That goes without saying,” Fletch said. He jerked his chin at Alan. “Those new trousers?”  
  
Alan nodded. “What do you think? Too flashy?”  
  
“We’re going to a gay club,” Fletch said. “It’s impossible to look to flashy.”  
  
“That’s what Dave said.” But Alan nervously ran his palms over the leather of his thighs and wondered if the trousers were supposed to bunch up like that at his knees.  
  
Fletch picked up a magazine from the table, and Alan looked round the lobby, tapping his hands on the armchair and letting his mind wander over the songs they had left to mix. The afternoon off had already done wonders for his mood and he was itching to get back to Hansa the next day, even if they still had to finish two of his own songs. He had an idea for the bridge in “Two Minute Warning” and he beat out the drum part with his fingers, wishing he had a notebook or something on him. He was looking around for a napkin when he spotted Martin and Dave crossing the lobby together.  
  
Martin should have been the more obvious of the two. He was wearing leather shorts with at least two metallic belts looped around his hips, and a scooped black tanktop that left very little of his torso to the imagination – Martin did not have chest hair and his nipples were very nicely shaped, Alan now knew. His hair was poufy as ever, and he had thick rings of eyeliner and mascara around his eyes.  
  
But striking as Martin was, Alan only spared him a glance, because Dave looked positively stunning. He was wearing leather trousers too, but his were older and gently worn, the leather pale and scuffed over the thighs and around the groin. They fit him like a glove, and Alan swore there was an extra swagger in Dave’s hips as he walked toward them. He also had on a tanktop, made out of a material that looked black and gauzy, but he was wearing an unbuttoned shirt over it. The ensemble made him look powerful and confident – and irresistible.  
  
When Alan looked up at his face, Dave was watching him with a devilish smile, and Alan had the distinct impression he’d just been caught checking out his mate. He glanced away quickly, his ears burning.  
  
Fletch jumped up when the other two got to their chairs. “’Bout time you blokes got here,” he said, glancing at his watch. “C’mon, I got us a taxi.”  
  
It was a quick drive to the club, which was in the heart of the Schoeneberg district. Vagabund was obvious because of the long queue stretched out front, and Alan could feel more than hear the loud thump of bass coming from inside. They piled out of the taxi at the head of the line and the men up front shifted and pushed up against one another as the band went straight to the bouncer at the door.  
  
“We’re on the list,” Fletch said to the bouncer, a thick, muscular man with a shaved head and several piercings in his ears and nose.  
  
“Name?” he said, sounding utterly bored.  
  
“Andy Fletcher,” Fletch said automatically, then added quickly, “Er, we’re with Karsten.”  
  
Alan raised an eyebrow, remembering Dan’s friend from their first day in Berlin. So there wasn’t a Lars-Ludwig after all.  
  
“Karsten?” the bouncer said.  
  
“Yeah, Karsten.”  
  
“I think he wants a last name,” Martin said.  
  
“Oh, right. Um.” Fletch scrunched up his forehead, obviously trying to remember. “Bow. Bower. B-something.”  
  
The bouncer sighed, but he looked down at his paper. “Reinhard?”  
  
“Yeah, that’s it!” Fletch said. He gave a nervous laugh when the bouncer stared hard at him. “Karsten Reinhard. Er, he has four guests.”  
  
The bouncer looked each of them up and down – Alan saw with a touch of absurd possessiveness that his gaze lingered on Dave for a second longer than the rest -- then turned to pull aside the rope blocking the main door and nodded them in. A groan went up from the front of the line and Alan resisted the urge to look back at them and smirk. He could get used to this kind of treatment.  
  
They walked into a dark foyer, and a man turned up to take Alan and Fletch’s jackets, giving them a slip of paper to pick them up later. They followed the bass toward a doorway blanketed by a heavy, velvet curtain. Dave went first, and the minute he pulled aside the curtain the music hit Alan like a physical thing, washing over him. Alan could feel it thumping in his bones, making his skin prickle with energy.  
  
The club was dark but a light show danced over the crowd in reds and blues, and the people on the floor moved like a thrumming swarm, confused and chaotic but somehow all connected to the music. The four of them stood just inside the doorway surveying the floor, and Alan felt both terribly out of his element, and intensely, powerfully eager to join the throbbing masses. He was sweating already and he undid another button on his shirt.  
  
Martin leaned over to say something into Dave’s ear, and he pointed across the dance floor. Alan squinted and tried to make out what Martin was looking at, but he was distracted by all of the bodies on the floor around him. The dancers were mostly men, of course, but there were quite a few more women than Alan would have expected – pretty and scantily clad, they were sweating and moving just as much as the men, and Alan wondered if it was a relief for them, to be able to dance freely without worrying about the next ugly sod who was going to hit on them.  
  
Alan felt a hand on the small of his back, and he turned to see Fletch jerk his chin toward the others. Dave and Martin had started walking, moving around the perimeter of the dance floor. Alan followed them, Fletch’s hand still resting on his back. They circled about halfway around the floor until Dave stopped at a table and then Alan understood what Martin had been pointing at – Karsten was there, along with a few other men Alan didn’t recognize.  
  
“Willkommen!” Karsten said, spreading his arms wide, completely plastered. He turned to his friends and started speaking rapidly in German, gesturing toward the band, and then seemed to realize they were all still standing around awkwardly. “Hinsetzen. Eh, sit. Sit down, bitte.”  
  
Karsten’s table was in a deep-seated booth and Alan was surprised to find that when they sat, the leather sides dampened the music considerably, making it possible to carry on a conversation without having to yell. The music was still very loud, and he could still feel the bass from the soles of his feet to the top of his head, but the booth offered a relative oasis from the rest of the club. That would probably be a relief later, but for the moment, Alan found that his eyes kept drifting to the dance floor. He’d need a drink first, though.  
  
Fortunately, Karsten already had a bottle of some kind of German vodka, and when Alan picked it up and raised an eyebrow at him, he nodded enthusiastically. Several empty shot glasses were scattered around the table and Alan found four that looked clean enough and poured generous drinks for the band.  
  
“Prost!” Martin said, and they tapped their glasses together and drank. The vodka was expensive and Alan closed his eyes as it slid warm and smooth down his throat. He opened them again when he felt a hand around his wrist; Dave was filling his glass with more vodka.  
  
“To Berlin,” Dave said, and clinked his glass against Alan’s.  
  
“To leather trousers,” Alan said, and Dave laughed so hard he had to wait a few seconds before he could drink his second shot. When they’d both finished, Alan grabbed Dave’s arm and hauled him out of the booth. “Time to dance, Gahan. Show these blokes how it’s done.”  
  
The floor was jam packed, and Alan had to shove a few sweaty men to the side so he and Dave could thread their way toward the middle. Bodies bumped up against them and Alan was glad for the vodka already humming in his blood and making his head buzz. The music was something hard and electronic, and there may have been lyrics but it was hard to tell over the heavy bass – Alan could catch snatches of vocals, more moaning and yelling than singing, and the effect was delightfully vulgar.  
  
Martin and Fletch joined them and all four of them danced, thrusting their hips and throwing their heads back, laughing over the music. When a man came up behind Alan and wrapped an arm around his waist, Alan went with it and rocked back into his thighs. Another man spun him around and they danced face to face for several minutes, never quite touching. Alan danced for what felt like hours, sometimes with Martin or Fletch, sometimes with strangers, more often with no one in particular.  
  
Dave was always there – just over someone’s shoulder, or at the edge of Alan’s vision, or sometimes behind him, a solid presence at his back. Alan swore he could smell him, the cologne he was wearing and the shampoo he used, the scent of his skin when he was sweating on stage. And that’s what this was to Dave, another stage. Dave was a performer down to his very bones, and Alan wasn’t the only one who was tracking him on the dance floor. Even as Alan continued dancing himself, he watched Dave – the easy sway of his hips, the waggle of his tight arse, taunting and seductive, the graceful arch of his neck when he tossed his head back. He’d lost his button-down shirt at some point, and the muscles and tendons in his arms – in his back and shoulders – pulled taught when he lifted them over his head. Dave was beautiful.  
  
Alan realized he was more swaying than dancing now, and he was breathing hard and feeling a bit dizzy. It was hot out in the center of the floor, and he needed to sit down for a few minutes. He turned away from Dave and shoved his way back toward the edge of the room, mumbling apologies that no one could hear. He was relieved when he reached the perimeter, where the air felt 10 degrees cooler. He found their booth and sat hard, his leather trousers squeaking against the leather seats.  
  
“Water?” Fletch was already sitting in the booth, and he handed a tall glass to Alan.  
  
“Bless you,” Alan said, and drank it all in one go. He wiped a hand over his mouth when he was done.  
  
“This place is a madhouse,” Fletch said. He was slumped back in the booth, his face red and sweaty, but he was smiling and his eyes were bright as he studied the dance floor.  
  
Alan nodded, and looked around the table to see if there was any vodka left. Karsten and the other Germans had disappeared, but there were still some jackets and shirts lying around so he assumed they were just dancing. A mostly empty bottle of vodka was on the other side of the table and Alan reached over Fletch to grab it.  
  
“Here, I’ve got it,” Fletch said, and picked it up by the neck. He poured a good shot into Alan’s empty water glass, then watched Alan drink. It was a cheaper vodka, and Alan coughed a little as it went down.  
  
“Want some?” Alan said to Fletch, holding the bottle over a glass. Fletch shook his head and Alan shrugged and poured another dose for himself. He sipped at this one, although it wasn’t really a vodka meant for sipping.  
  
“Didn’t expect you to be out there dancing so much,” Fletch said casually.  
  
“You didn’t?”  
  
“You just don’t seem the dancing type, I guess,” Fletch said.  
  
“Ah,” Alan said, taking another generous sip of vodka. “That’s because I’m a Gemini.”  
  
“A gem-what?”  
  
“Gemini,” Alan said, a little louder to be heard over the music. “You know, astrology?”  
  
“Oh, the moons and stars and planets and shite like that,” Fletch said, nodding. “You believe in that?”  
  
“Not really, no,” Alan said. “But Jeri’s into it. I’m a Gemini, and that’s supposed to be the twins, yeah? Split personality, that kind of thing. So she says I’m cynical and sarcastic and a mean old bugger by day, and then the life of the party by night.”  
  
Fletch looked at him skeptically, his eyebrows furrowed in an almost comical way. “Quit it. You can’t be serious,” he said.  
  
Alan laughed and raised his hands. “Hey, Jeri’s the one who believes in that nonsense.”  
  
“What nonsense?” Dave fell into the booth beside Alan, bumping into his thigh and shoulder. He was sweating heavily and his tanktop clung to his chest.  
  
“Slick says he’s a split personality or something,” Fletch said.  
  
Dave sniffed Alan’s glass and made a face. “What’s split personality?”  
  
“I dunno, but I think it means he’s not actually an arsehole 24 hours a day,” Fletch said.  
  
“Fuck off,” Alan said. He poured a glass of water for Dave and handed it to him.  
  
Dave drank the water, then handed it back to Alan to refill. “It’s brutal out there,” he said, pulling his shirt away from his stomach.  
  
“Hey, where’s Mart?” Fletch said. He leaned over the table, eyes scanning the crowded dance floor.  
  
“Last I saw he was wearing some bloke’s shirt on his head and dancing with a Simon Le Bon look-alike,” Alan said, just to rile him up.  
  
“That fat fuck,” Fletch muttered, and Alan and Dave laughed.  
  
“Hey, is that him?” Dave said, pointing to the far end of the room. “In front of the DJ. I think he’s. . . Oh. Yeah, that’s Mart.”  
  
“Bugger,” Fletch said, jumping up from the table. “He’s taking off his shorts.”  
  
Alan bent over laughing as Fletch took off at a run, knocking one dancer flat on his arse.  
  
“He’s a good friend, gotta give him that,” Dave said, shaking his head.  
  
“You’d do the same for me, yeah?”  
  
“Sprint across a dance floor? Only if I had a camera,” Dave said.  
  
“Some bloody friend you are,” Alan said, and gave Dave a playful shove. “C’mon, up you go. I’m going to the toilet.”  
  
“Good, I’ve gotta go too,” Dave said.  
  
Alan had no clue where the toilet was, but Dave seemed to know where they were going and he guided Alan in the right direction with a hand on his shoulder. They found their way easily, and Alan ignored the moans coming from one of the stalls behind him as he took care of business. From what little he knew of gay dance clubs, that kind of behavior was discouraged, but he supposed if you put enough attractive, sweaty, writhing men in one room, a bit of indiscretion was to be expected.  
  
Dave was waiting for him in the corridor, and Alan said, “I thought you had to use the facilities too.”  
  
“I guess not,” Dave said. He jerked his chin over his shoulder. “I want to show you something.”  
  
He didn’t wait for Alan to reply, just turned and started climbing a narrow staircase Alan hadn’t noticed. It was dark, and Alan was feeling more than a little unsteady on his feet from the vodka. He put a hand on Dave’s lower back – his skin felt cool and damp through the thin material of his tanktop.  
  
At the top of the stairs was a balcony that stretched along the rear wall of the main club. There were a few tables with small lamps on them, but most people seemed to be leaning against the railing, drinks in hand as they peered down at the dance floor below. Dave found a spot toward the far end of the rail, and he made space for Alan to squeeze in next to him.  
  
He pointed and said something Alan couldn’t hear – the music seemed louder, echoing off the ceiling and walls – but Alan followed his finger and laughed when he saw Fletch manhandling Martin back toward their booth. It was hard to tell from this distance, especially in the dim light of the dance floor, but Fletch looked ready to go into a rage, and Martin seemed to be holding his shorts up with one hand.  
  
“Someone’s in trouble,” Dave said, his face suddenly so close to Alan’s that they were very nearly touching. Alan could feel Dave’s warm breath on his ear, and his first thought was that Martin wasn’t the one in trouble.  
  
Alan forced himself to laugh, but his heart was racing. Dave smiled at him, warm and easy, and that should have been comforting but instead it made Alan a little dizzy, like he wasn’t getting enough air. He looked away and took a deep breath. A minute later Dave nudged him and handed him a lit cigarette, and Alan took it gratefully, his hands shaking. He took a deep drag and coughed, and he felt more than heard Dave chuckle beside him.  
  
They stood there without talking, flicking ashes on the balcony floor and watching the swaying crowd below. When he was done with the cigarette Alan turned to look for an ashtray, and Dave held out an empty cocktail glass. He set it back on the floor and draped his arm over Alan’s shoulders, pulling him in close.  
  
“Ready to dance some more?” Dave said into his ear. Alan closed his eyes and his first thought was no, he didn’t want to dance, he wanted to stay right here, just in this moment. But he nodded, and Dave squeezed his shoulder and let him go.  
  
They made their way across the balcony, Alan’s head buzzing from the liquor and the cigarette and the endless, pulsing bass. His whole body was fairly thrumming with energy and suddenly he did want to dance – he needed it, because something was very wrong, and something he couldn’t name was threatening to burst right out of him. He needed to move or sing or play or  _something_. It seemed like there were too many people on the balcony now, bumping against him as he fought to get to the stairs, and just as they’d reached the end of the balcony Dave grabbed Alan by the arm and pulled him to the side, his back to the wall.  
  
“Hold on,” Dave said, just as a group of men charged up the stairs. They were large and very drunk, and one of them shoved up against Dave, banging into him hard enough that he fell against Alan.  
  
Dave hit him with a gasp and when he pulled back they were standing chest to chest, Dave’s hands on the wall on either side of Alan. Another man bumped him and they were pushed even closer together, and Alan swore he could feel Dave’s heart beating, could see the rapid pulse in his neck.  
  
Their eyes locked, and Dave kissed him. His lips were warm and dry and nothing like a woman’s, and Alan closed his eyes and kissed him back. He opened his mouth and moaned as Dave’s tongue swept between his lips. Dave’s kiss was strong and confident, and kissing him was a little like fighting – both of them aggressive and intense, trying to take control. Alan bit Dave’s lower lip and sucked on it, and he wrapped a palm around the back of Dave’s neck. The other hand gripped Dave’s shoulder and he found himself trying to pull Dave closer, trying to get more of him, needing it. Dave groaned and planted his hands on Alan’s hips.  
  
Someone else bumped them and their heads smacked together, and they broke apart. Alan was breathing hard, his head spinning. Somewhere beside them a man muttered something in German that was almost definitely “get a room,” and Dave laughed.  
  
He kissed Alan chastely on the cheek, and took his arm. “Come on, let’s go,” he said, and led Alan downstairs.

 


	5. Chapter 5

_It all seems so stupid  
it makes me want to give up  
But why should I give up  
when it all seems so stupid_  
-Shame  
  
  
  
Alan felt decidedly wobbly as he made his way carefully down the stairs from the balcony, Dave’s reassuring hand on his shoulder the whole time. When they reached the bottom Dave stopped him and pulled him off to the side, and said into his ear, “All right?”  
  
Alan couldn’t have even started to answer that, so he nodded. His skin was tingling from the top of his head to the tips of his fingers, like he’d had a good electrical shock, and he had no idea if it was the kiss or the alcohol or the dancing, or everything. It seemed as though his brain was stuck on some sort of loop, like a record that kept skipping: Dave kissed you! You kissed Dave! He shook his head, as if he could get his thoughts back on track with a physical shove. He felt Dave laugh, and his hand reached up to cup the back of his neck briefly, and then they moved back toward the main dance floor.   
  
Their booth was packed when Alan and Dave returned. Even over the loud music Alan could hear Martin laughing before he saw him, and Fletch was perched on a seat at the edge of the booth – presumably to keep Mart from making a run for it. Still, he was laughing too, and didn’t seem too bothered by his baby-sitting duties.  
  
Karsten and his German friends had returned and they slid over to make room for Alan and Dave. It was a tight fit with all of them tucked around the table, and Dave’s body was pressed up against him. To make more room, Dave lifted an arm and looped it over the seat behind Alan’s shoulders, and Alan felt Dave’s fingers brush his hair.  
  
“Here, try this,” Martin said, and pushed two glasses across the table. They were filled with a thick, amber liquid. Alan noticed that their table had been transformed into some kind of impromptu cocktail bar – there were three or four bottles of liquor, plus tonic water, a pail of ice, and more glasses than he could count.  
  
“What is it?” Alan said, taking one of the glasses from Martin and handing the other to Dave.  
  
“Just drink it,” Martin said. Alan lifted the glass – the drink smelled syrupy sweet, and it coated the sides of the glass when he tipped it. “It’s not bloody poison. Go on.”  
  
Alan drank it in one go and immediately coughed and sputtered, just barely managing to keep it down. The entire table burst into laughter and Dave put down his own full glass and pushed it away carefully. “What the bloody hell is that?” Alan said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Cough syrup?”  
  
“Jagermeister!” Martin said. “It’s good, yeah?”  
  
“It’s horrible,” Alan said. His eyes were watering and his mouth tasted sticky and sickeningly sweet. He searched the table for a plain glass of water but couldn’t find any, so he grabbed what was left of the vodka and poured himself a healthy shot, which he downed immediately.  
  
Karsten rolled his eyes and with quick, nimble hands he filled a glass with ice and tonic and vodka and, finally, a generous bolt of Jagermeister. He gently shook the glass, then handed it to Alan.  
  
“Er, nein,” Alan said with a firm shake of his head. It made him very dizzy.  
  
“Drink, ja?” Karsten said, and made a drinking motion with his hand.  
  
Alan glanced at Dave, who raised an eyebrow and shrugged. Alan took a careful sip, and grinned. “Not bad,” he said, and drank again. The Jagermeister gave the vodka tonic a nice kick. He gave Karsten a firm thumbs up, and the table laughed again. Alan offered the glass to Dave, who shook his head.  
  
“Not me, mate,” Dave said. “I’ll keep to the vodka.”  
  
“Suit yourself,” Alan said, and drank heartily from his new favorite cocktail. When he’d finished it, a new one appeared in front of him as if by magic, and Alan grinned up at Karsten, whose face was suddenly looking a little watery.  
  
Things rapidly went downhill from there. Alan remembered dancing some more, including one fairly salacious number with Martin that earned them both a round of wolf whistles. He remembered running his fingers through Fletch’s hair, and telling him it was very soft. He remembered Dave touching him – dancing his fingers over Alan’s thigh under the table, sliding his knuckles over the back of Alan’s neck when no one was looking, leaning in to whisper something, his lips brushing Alan’s ear. He remembered wanting to kiss Dave again, wanting it so intensely that he felt desperate with it, like a terrible, wonderful craving that ached in his chest.  
  
Alan knew better than to mix his alcohol but he’d done it anyway, and his memory faded to blurred images – stumbling out of the club into the painful pre-dawn light, a nauseating taxi back to the hotel, and then nothing. His last thought before passing out was that they’d only had the one kiss, and that wasn’t nearly good enough.  
  
  
  
+++  
  
  
  
Alan’s first conscious thought upon waking was: Jagermeister. Never again.  
  
It was, perhaps, the worst hangover of his life. Alan woke up lying sprawled on his stomach on his fully made bed. His face was stuck to his pillow with dried spit and sweat and he hoped nothing else, and for reasons unknown, he was clutching a remote control in his right hand. For a long moment he just stared at it, thinking only that the soft, rubbery buttons felt nice when he pushed them.  
  
He blinked and thought he might have fallen back to sleep, and he rolled over onto his back with a pathetic groan. The ceiling spun gently and sickeningly over his head, and suddenly he had to get up and find a toilet. Alan bolted upright and swung his legs out of the bed and only then did he realize his trousers were pulled down around his ankles, and he tripped and fell to his knees on the floor. With great luck, he happened to land next to a rubbish bin, and Alan grabbed it like the holy grail it was and spent several long, ugly minutes throwing up everything he’d ever eaten – including all of the fucking Jagermeister.  
  
He felt immediately and immensely better after he’d finished. Alan sat back and leaned against the side of the bed, and tried to decide if he had enough energy to take his trousers the rest of the way off and get a glass of water, or if he should just crawl to the sink. He spotted a glass of water on the bedside table.  
  
“Thank fuck,” Alan said. He managed to grab the glass without spilling water all over himself, and he drank it slowly. It was wonderful, and Alan seriously considered giving up on vegetarianism and living on only pure, delicious water.  
  
He glanced at the clock next to the bed and wasn’t surprised to find that it was already after noon. He had no idea what time he’d gotten back to the hotel – or how he’d gotten into his own room, for that matter. He didn’t think he could have done it under his own power, which meant someone had dragged him in and left him to die on the bed. He looked around the tiny room, but there was no one else.  
  
He didn’t remember everything of the night before, but he remembered enough. Alan ran both hands through his hair and dropped his head to his knees.  
  
“What a bloody fucking disaster,” he said into his lap.  
  
His memory was fuzzy, but from what he could recall – and considering the fact that he was still in his underwear and the shirt he’d worn to the club – he was fairly certain there’d been nothing else after the kiss. But the kiss was plenty.  
  
Alan had done a lot of foolish, embarrassing things while drunk, but this one took the cake. He’d kissed a man for the first time in his life – which, all things considered, was pretty low on his list of worries. Alan considered himself straight, but he wasn’t as rigid when it came to defining his sexuality as most people. He liked women – he really liked fucking women – but he liked the odd bloke too, and Dave happened to be an extremely good looking bloke.  
  
Dave – that was the catch. Dave, whom he was starting to consider a good friend. Dave, who had a serious girlfriend. Dave, who was the  _lead singer_  of the band. Alan had a brief flash of what could have happened if they’d been caught at the club – if Mart or Fletch had walked up on them. Maybe they would have had a good laugh, but maybe not. Alan had only just recently started feeling like he had a place in the band, like maybe he could really fit in, but his position was still precarious and it was obvious where loyalties would lie if ever there was an ugly fight.  
  
Alan groaned and balled his hands into fists and tugged at his hair until it hurt.  
  
“Fuck,” he said, and kicked at the nightstand. His legs were still caught in his trousers and he yelled in frustration. He grabbed at the stupid leather and tugged and kicked until he was free, and then he tossed the trousers across the room.  
  
He was panting and his head was throbbing in a way that threatened to make him sick again, and for just a moment he felt so tired and angry and miserable that he seriously considered just crawling into the bed and giving up on the rest of the day. What a fucking idiot. He had to be back in the studio soon, and he’d have to face Dave. If he was lucky, Dave would simply avoid him. If he was very lucky, Dave would act like nothing had ever happened.  
  
And if he wasn’t lucky, well – there was always his old friend Jagermeister.  
  
  
  
+++  
  
  
  
After a very long, very hot shower and a breakfast of tea and plain toast, Alan arrived at the studio about an hour late, but feeling marginally human again. The headache had been reduced to a dull thumping at the base of his skull and the nausea was mostly a distant memory, although he was pretty sure if Fletch showed up with Toast Hawaii for lunch, he’d throw up all over his shoes. But otherwise, Alan thought he could make it through the day. Physically, at least.  
  
“There he is,” Fletch said, when Alan walked into the studio. “Thought maybe we’d seen the last of you.”  
  
Alan ignored him and slipped into a chair at the console. Martin and Gareth were already working, and they both gave him sympathetic smiles.  
  
“All right, mate?” Martin said.  
  
Alan waggled his hand. “You?”  
  
“Same,” he said, and they both chuckled.  
  
Fletch walked up behind them and gave Alan’s chair a good shake.  
  
“So, it looks like Slick has met his match,” Fletch said. “I brought in some Jagermeister, just for you.”  
  
“Sod off,” Alan said.  
  
“Maybe later then,” Fletch said, and returned to his post on the couch.  
  
They started on “Two Minute Warning,” and Alan played them the bridge sequence he’d been drafting in his head, and before long he was lost in the music and the work. Dan was up in London again for the day, and Gareth was eager to experiment while he was away. It was an enthusiasm Alan shared – Dan was all for creativity, but with a deadline looming, he sometimes seemed more interested in speed than artistry.  
  
When Dave showed up with dinner Alan had almost forgotten to be nervous, and when Dave grinned at him as he passed over a sandwich, Alan allowed himself to feel hopeful. Dave didn’t wink at him, didn’t lean over to whisper something in his ear, didn’t casually brush up against him. He was completely normal, and if Alan was a little disappointed, he supposed that was to be expected. He’d get over it.  
  
But an hour later Alan wasn’t over it, and the fact that Dave could act like nothing had happened was starting to make him irrationally angry. There was Dave, joking with Martin and Fletch, smiling and laughing and telling Alan how great the song was turning out. And Alan felt like someone had wired him to an amplifier and kept cranking up the volume, frying his nerves and making him feel like he was ready to explode from the tension.  
  
“Al?”  
  
Alan jerked and looked over at Gareth, who was staring at him expectantly. “Er-”  
  
“I was just saying, we should have Dave redo that first verse, yeah?”  
  
Alan nodded vaguely and glanced at Dave. He was sitting on the couch between Fletch and Martin, trying to learn a chord on Mart’s guitar.  
  
“I’ll be right back,” Alan said, and he left the studio.  
  
He headed for the kitchen, because it was just down the corridor, and he realized he hadn’t touched the sandwich Dave had brought him for dinner. The kitchen was empty, and Alan rummaged in the refrigerator but could only find an unappealing apple and an old carton of milk. He grabbed the apple – he had no idea who it belonged to, and he didn’t really care – and went hunting for a knife in the cabinet drawers. He found one and started chopping up the apple and cutting out the brown bits. The kitchen door opened behind him and he didn’t look up.  
  
“It’s about bloody time,” Dave said, laughter in his voice.  
  
Alan’s stomach did a slow flip. He swallowed and looked over his shoulder at Dave. “Time for what?”  
  
“Thought you were never going to leave the control room,” Dave said. He walked up to Alan and leaned a hip against the countertop.  
  
Alan looked at him briefly and then turned back to his apple with a shrug. “It’s been busy.”  
  
“Too busy to follow me to the toilet half an hour ago?” Alan didn’t answer, and Dave leaned in close to him, his breath hot on Alan’s neck. “You’re not too busy right now.”  
  
For just a moment Alan allowed it. He put down the knife, and when Dave kissed his neck he let his head fall forward with a sigh. Dave put a hand on his hip and just that small touch was electric.  
  
“Dave,” he said, almost a gasp. But when Dave ignored him and kissed his neck again, and his jaw, his cheek, Alan put a hand on his chest and pushed him back. “We can’t.”  
  
Dave arched an eyebrow at him. “What? Afraid of getting caught?”  
  
“This,” Alan said, gesturing between them, “is a bad idea. A very bad idea.”  
  
“I think it’s a pretty bloody brilliant idea,” Dave said. He looked genuinely surprised. “One of my better ideas, actually.”  
  
“I mean it,” Alan said. “We can’t do this.”  
  
“Why the hell not?”  
  
“Fuck, Dave, give me one good reason why we should,” Alan said.  
  
The hurt on Dave’s face was immediate and awful, and exactly what Alan had wanted to avoid. He ran a frustrated hand over his face.  
  
“Look, I’m sorry. It’s nothing personal-”  
  
“Yeah, well, I guess that’s the problem,” Dave said. “See, I thought it  _was_  personal.”  
  
“Dave-”  
  
The kitchen door opened and Martin popped his head in. “There you are. C’mon, we want to get some vocals before those Italian blokes in studio four start banging on the walls again.”  
  
Dave stared at Alan for a moment, their eyes locked, and then he nodded sharply. “Yeah, all right,” he said, and brushed past Alan toward the door.  
  
When he’d left, Martin turned to Alan with a grin and said, “Lovers’ tiff?”  
  
“Fuck off.”  
  
Martin’s eyebrows shot up in surprise, but he recovered quickly and said, “Okay, well, we’ll see you in a few minutes, then?”  
  
Alan nodded and turned his back to him, and when the door had shut again he slammed his hands onto the counter so hard that his palms stung, and then he did it again.  
  
“Fuck,” he said. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”  
  
Alan swept his hand over the cutting board and bits of apple went flying across the counter, and the knife fell to the floor. There was a sharp pain in his hand and he looked down to see blood on his palm – he’d managed to cut himself on the knife.  
  
“Fuck!”  
  
He grabbed a handful of napkins off the counter and pressed them to his palm, which seemed to be bleeding quite freely. He pushed hard on the napkins for a minute and then moved to the sink to rinse the blood off his hand and examine the cut. He’d sliced it pretty well, and Alan searched the cabinets for something to bandage his hand. He found a battered box of plasters and used three of them to cover the cut.  
  
“Fucking bastard,” Alan muttered, and he wasn’t sure if he meant himself or Dave.  
  
He hadn’t meant to hurt Dave – that’d been the last thing he’d wanted to do – but then, Dave had hurt him too. Alan had no idea what Dave wanted or expected from him, but he apparently thought it was his to take. And it wasn’t fair to make Alan be the sensible one – to remember that they both had homes and girlfriends back in England, and that the band was too important to jeopardize over whatever stupid attraction they might feel for one another. The band meant more than a stolen kiss in a club, or a fuck, if it ever came to that.  
  
Alan banged his uninjured fist against the counter one more time, and let his head fall against the overhead cabinets. He sighed, and then he scooped up the apple bits and tossed them in the rubbish bin, and picked the knife up off the floor and washed all the blood from it. His hand stung and he was careful not to bump it against anything.  
  
Amazingly enough, this day was turning out worse than he’d expected.  
  
  
  
+++  
  
  
  
When he got back to the control room Dave was already in the studio, which was a relief because Alan wasn’t sure they should be in the same room at the moment. Martin gave him a hard, searching look as he took a seat at the console, but Alan ignored him. He also very pointedly did not look through the window into the studio, where Dave was behind the mic with Gareth.  
  
“We’re ready for liftoff,” Gareth said as he walked into the control room, closing the studio door behind him. He sat down in front of the mixing board and flipped a switch to turn on the computer monitor.  
  
Martin hit a button to open the speaker into the studio and said, “Ready when you are, Dave.” Dave closed his eyes and wrapped both hands around the microphone. After a moment he gave them a thumbs up and Gareth started the tape – it was an early mix of “Two Minute Warning,” just something for Dave to sing to. Dave nodded in time to the beat of the intro, and then launched into the first verse. They only needed him to sing the first four lines.  
  
No one had been particularly happy with the vocals on the first few recordings, and Alan had felt personally responsible for that -- he knew he’d failed Dave by not writing a melody that suited his voice. Martin and Dave had tried to reassure him – Dave in particular had said that it was good for him to reach beyond his natural abilities – but Alan wasn’t convinced, and Dan hadn’t been all that happy with the final result anyway. But eventually they’d recorded a few tracks everyone could live with. And then Alan had screwed up again by rewriting the bridge, which had set off a cascade of small changes that meant the first verse now sounded entirely too soft for the rest of the song.  
  
So here they were again – Dave struggling through Alan’s words, only now things were about a thousand times more complicated.  
  
“Good, let’s try it again, a little harder this time,” Gareth said, when Dave wrapped up the first take.  
  
On the second take, Dave managed to stutter on the fourth line. On the third take, his voice cracked. On the fourth take, he sang “flying” instead of “lying,” and then it took three more takes before he could shake that tic. It was, far and away, the worst recording session Alan had ever heard from Dave, and for one crazy moment he wondered if Dave was just trying to punish him. It really was an exquisite kind of torture.  
  
“Fuck,” Dave said after the tenth or eleventh take – Alan had lost count.  
  
“No, no, that was good,” Gareth said, which was a terrible lie.  
  
“Bullshit,” Dave said, and tugged off his headphones. He stormed out of the studio and into the control room.  
  
“Okay, how about we take a break, then,” Gareth said.  
  
But Dave ignored him. “I want to hear Al’s demo again,” Dave said. “I don’t know what I’m doing here.”  
  
“The demo? Er. I don’t think we have it,” Gareth said, but he started opening up cabinets anyway, rifling through the tapes they’d brought to Hansa.  
  
Dave rolled his eyes and planted his hands on his hips. “Fine. Al, walk me through it again, yeah?”  
  
Alan ran a hand through his hair, and tried think about how to explain himself, to clear his head of the frustration of the day. It felt like everyone was watching him. He stood up and paced back and forth.  
  
“Okay, so, first verse, it’s a bit melancholy, but naïve, right?”  
  
Dave shook his head. “Naïve? What do you mean by naïve?”  
  
“Fuck, Dave, naïve. Innocent. Hopeful,” Alan said, his voice tight.  
  
“I know what the fucking word means. I’m just trying to understand you, get the song right.”  
  
“We both know it’s not about the bloody lyrics!” Alan threw his hands up, utterly exasperated. “It’s not my fucking fault that you can’t sing for shit tonight.”  
  
Alan stopped, shocked and horrified by what he’d just said. The room went quiet as a church, and now Alan knew for sure that everyone was watching him.  
  
“Dave-”  
  
“Fuck,” Dave said.  
  
“I didn’t-”  
  
“Al, your hand,” Dave said, and Alan blinked and looked at the hand Dave was pointing at. Blood was running down his palm and wrist and coating the sleeve of his shirt.  
  
“Bloody hell,” Alan said, and suddenly he felt very unsteady. That was a lot of blood.  
  
“No kidding,” Fletch said, and it was like a spell was broken and everyone started talking at once. Martin took Alan’s arm and walked him to the sofa, and he fell more than sat there.  
  
“He’s white as a sheet,” Fletch said. “I think he might faint.”  
  
“I think  _I_  might faint,” Gareth said.  
  
“What the hell happened?” Fletch said. He crouched in front of Alan and took hold of his hand. Alan glanced up at the bloody mess for a moment and immediately looked away. He’d never thought of himself as particularly squeamish before, but the sight of so much his own blood was disturbing.  
  
“Cut it,” Alan said thickly. “On a knife.”  
  
“On purpose?” Fletch said. Alan glared at him and Fletch gave him a weak smile. “Course not. Well, it’s going to need stitches.”  
  
“Oh, and now you’re a doctor,” Alan said.  
  
Fletch put his face close to Alan’s hand and frowned. “No, but I think I can see the bone.”  
  
“Fuck,” Alan said and let his head fall back on the sofa cushion.  
  
“Okay, who’s taking him to hospital?” Gareth said.  
  
“I will.” It was Dave. Alan opened his eyes, surprised. Dave wasn’t looking at him, and his face was very pale.  
  
“No, we need you to get those vocals,” Gareth said.  
  
“I can’t bloody well sing when Al’s bleeding to death!” Dave said.  
  
Gareth rolled his eyes. “Bloody drama queens, the lot of you,” he said. “Look, Dan’ll kill us – or me, anyway – if we don’t have these vocals done when he comes in tomorrow. And anyway, Mart should take him. He’s the only one who speaks any German.”  
  
He had a point, and even Dave seemed to agree – or else he didn’t actually want to go with Alan, which wouldn’t be surprising. Martin collected his jacket and ushered Alan toward the door.  
  
“Good,” Gareth said, and clapped his hands. “I’ll call a car. Mart, give us a call if he does bleed to death, yeah?”  
  
  
  
+++  
  
  
  
Two hours later Alan was sitting with Mart on the hard plastic chairs of a Berlin emergency department, and he was fairly certain he’d never felt worse in his life.  
  
The hospital smelled, as hospitals usually did, of antiseptic cleaners and blood and something sweet and rotten that he didn’t care to identify. The waiting room was packed with people, most of them quietly suffering, or coughing into their hands. One small child on the other side of the room kept vomiting into a paper bag. Alan’s hand was throbbing in time with his pulse, and his hangover seemed to have resurfaced with a vengeance, and his back ached from sitting on these stupid chairs for so long. Every now and then he got up to stretch his legs, but he really did feel a little woozy. Anyway, it seemed to make Martin nervous when he walked too far away.  
  
But far worse than any physical discomfort was the knowledge that Alan was, quite clearly, the biggest bastard in the world. In just one day he’d managed to kiss a friend who should have been completely off limits, and then cruelly insult that friend – and not just once, either. Alan was still in utter shock over what he’d said to Dave in the studio. He’d humiliated both of them by attacking Dave personally and professionally. Just the thought of it made Alan feel sick.  
  
And on top of everything, it seemed entirely likely that whatever friendship he’d managed to build with Dave was good and ruined. It was stunning, really, how thoroughly Alan had screwed up, but the worst of it would be losing Dave.  
  
“Fucking hell,” Alan said, for probably the tenth time since they’d arrived at the hospital. He felt bad for poor Mart, stuck with him all this time. But he was grateful to have him – Alan didn’t know how he would have found his way around the hospital without Martin’s German, even if they’d spent most of their time just sitting and waiting. But aside from that, Alan was just glad to have someone with him.  
  
Martin hadn’t said a word about what had happened in the studio, which was a relief, but it also created a weird sort of tension. Alan had tried to bring it up when they’d first sat down in the waiting room and it became obvious they’d be there for a while, but Martin had waved him off and changed the subject, talking about their plans for “Pipeline.” They’d been quiet for a while now, both of them on their third cups of coffee.  
  
“You okay?” Martin said, when Alan rubbed a hand over his face.  
  
“Not really,” Alan said. “You don’t have to stay, Mart. I think I’ll be able to tell when they call my name.”  
  
Martin shrugged. “Don’t really have anywhere better to be,” he said, and gave Alan a small smile.  
  
Alan looked at his hand again. Fletch had given him a bunch of napkins to stop the blood before they left for the hospital, and a nurse had wound a tight bandage around his palm right after he’d arrived. He kept expecting blood to seep through again, but so far the bandage was clean. He flexed his hand, drawing it into a painful fist.  
  
“Quit it,” Martin said, and put a hand on his arm.  
  
Alan blew out a hard breath and slumped back in his chair. The man sitting across from him coughed hard, and when Alan glanced up at him they briefly made eye contact. The man smiled and Alan thought there was blood on his lips. He quickly looked away.  
  
“How do you do it, Mart?” he said, searching for a distraction. “All those songs you write, I mean.”  
  
“I don’t know. Most of them just come to me, I guess,” Martin said.  
  
“They come to you,” Alan said. “Just like that.”  
  
“I suppose. It’s the same for you, yeah?”  
  
Alan laughed humorlessly. “More like pulling teeth. Actually, pulling teeth might be less painful.”  
  
“It gets easier,” Martin said. “I think. But I don’t think it’s something you can really force.”  
  
“No, probably not,” Alan said with a sigh.  
  
Martin was quiet for a moment. “You’re all right, you know,” he said finally. “Your songs, they’re good.”  
  
Alan looked at him, and Martin’s face was serious. His jaw was set and his eyes were clear, and Alan recognized that look – he got that way when he was feeling especially stubborn, usually in the studio.  
  
“Thanks,” Alan said sincerely. Martin didn’t dole out praise very often.  
  
The nurse called his name then, and Alan got up. His legs and back felt stiff and he stretched.  
  
“Good luck,” Martin said.  
  
“Let’s hope I don’t need it,” Alan said, and he meant it, given the day he’d already had.  
  
  
  
+++  
  
  
  
But luck still wasn’t on his side, and Alan waited in the back of the emergency department, in a curtained off exam area, for another two hours. He sat on a gurney and tried to tune out the sounds of other patients moaning or asking for help. He was cold and hungry and desperately tired, but he didn’t know how to ask for a blanket, or even water, and he couldn’t sleep with all the noise and chaos around him.  
  
Now that he was truly alone, all he could think about was how royally he’d fucked up. Kissing Dave had perhaps been the smartest thing he’d done in the past 24 hours. The guilt was terrible – it was a physical pain in his chest and gut, and it very nearly eclipsed the throbbing pain in his hand. In fact, he was glad for the injury because it was distracting, and in a sick sort of way it felt right that he should be hurting after what he’d said to Dave.  
  
Of all the ways he could have hurt Dave, of course he’d picked the cruelest. He’d insulted Dave’s singing. It was unforgiveable, really. And the worst of it was that Alan had been full of shit – he had the utmost respect for Dave’s singing, and who the fuck didn’t have an off day every now and then?  
  
When the doctor finally came in, he talked nonstop to Alan in German, and Alan let the words wash over him. They sounded hard and stern, like a lecture, or an accusation, and that felt appropriate. The doctor gave him a shot in the hand that was sharp and painful, and when he started with the sutures Alan looked away. His head was starting to feel fuzzy again, and he didn’t know if it was from the doctor working on his hand, or just exhaustion. He closed his eyes, and a few minutes later a hand tapped his arm and he opened them again. The doctor handed him a slip of paper and disappeared beyond the curtain.  
  
Alan stood in his exam area for a moment feeling dazed, until he finally realized he could leave. He looked at his hand, the stitches hidden under a bright bandage, and he pushed back the bloodied sleeve of his shirt. It was ruined now and he was glad it wasn’t one of his new ones.  
  
He thought about Dave as he walked back to the waiting room – it seemed unreal that just the day before they’d been shopping and wandering happily around Berlin, just a couple of good mates. He’d have to see Dave again the next day, and he’d have to grovel and beg forgiveness, and hope that they could salvage some sort of working relationship. He thought they could – they were adults, and they both cared too much about their work. But it wouldn’t be pleasant.  
  
The waiting room was quiet now, well after midnight. Alan saw Martin waiting near the nurse’s station, and he headed toward him. He stopped when a hand landed on his shoulder, and he looked back.  
  
“Al.” It was Dave – pale and red-eyed, looking like he hadn’t slept in days. Alan just blinked at him.  
  
Then Dave smiled, and his face was so warm, and so happy, that Alan felt weak with relief, and he smiled and let his forehead fall onto Dave’s shoulder, and he said, “Fuck, I’m sorry.” He felt Dave chuckle, and he felt Dave’s warm hand on his back.  
  
“Daft bastard,” Dave said. And really, that about summed it up.

 


	6. Chapter 6

_Something went wrong  
along the way  
Everybody’s waiting for  
judgment day_  
-Told You So  
  
  
  
They got back to the Intercontinental at some point after midnight, and though it was still well before Alan’s usual bedtime, he was so tired he could barely see straight. When they got off the lift, Mart handed Alan a brown paper bag with the antibiotics the doctor had prescribed, then gave a lazy salute and took off down the hallway toward his own room.  
  
“Thanks,” Alan called after him, and Mart just waved over his shoulder without looking back. Alan turned to Dave. “I think he’s actually starting to like me.”  
  
“Well, you’re so loveable, aren’t you?” Dave said. “Loveable like a hungry lion, or a very angry crocodile.”  
  
“Yeah, speaking of angry,” Alan said, but Dave waved him off.  
  
“Water under the bridge, mate,” he said.  
  
“I insulted your singing.”  
  
Dave shrugged. “My singing was fairly insulting at the time.”  
  
“Dave-”  
  
“Al, you were angry, I was angry, it’s all right. I’m not going to make you beg forgiveness every time you blow your top.” Dave stopped and ran a hand through his hair. “Just, no more playing with knives, yeah?”  
  
Alan looked down at his hand and nodded. “Fair enough.”  
  
They walked down the hall together and stopped in front of Alan’s room, and Alan groaned. “Fuck, I forgot. I lost my room key.”  
  
Somehow the idea of going back down to the lobby to get a new key seemed too tiring to even contemplate. Alan was just going to ask if he could crash in Dave’s room, despite the awkwardness still between them, when Dave said, “Oh, right,” and pulled a key out of his trouser pocket and used it to open Alan’s door.  
  
“How did you-”  
  
“I guess I took it with me when I left your room last night. Er, this morning. Yesterday morning?” Dave said. “Christ, the days all run together, don’t they?”  
  
“I was looking for that, you know. Thought I’d lost my mind,” Alan said.  
  
“Sorry, mate,” Dave said, not sounding sorry at all. He led the way into Alan’s room.  
  
“So, I guess that means you were the one who left me for dead yesterday?” Alan said.  
  
“Wasn’t much better off myself. I actually passed out next to you.” Dave paused and scratched his head. “I can’t really remember how we got up here, to be honest.”  
  
Alan felt somewhat relieved to know he hadn’t been the only one to lose time the night before. He glanced around the hotel room, pleased to see that it had been mostly put back in order, and best of all, didn’t smell of vomit. He’d be sure to leave a fat tip for the maid service when he left.  
  
His trousers were folded neatly on the dresser, and that reminded Alan that he had no clue what, exactly, had happened after they’d apparently fallen into his bed together. “Um, so were you the one who took my trousers off?”  
  
Dave laughed, his whole face lighting up. “Oh man, I’d forgotten about that.”  
  
Alan felt his face turn red. “So you-”  
  
“No, mate,” Dave said, sounding breathless from the laughter. “You woke up at some point yelling about being too hot and feeling like a stuffed sausage and you started kicking and tearing your trousers off. You were like a crazed animal. I was afraid you’d knock me out cold, so that’s when I went back to my own room.”  
  
“You could’ve bloody well helped me,” Alan said, embarrassment making him cranky. “I nearly broke my neck tripping over those trousers in the morning.”  
  
“And earned myself a black eye in the process? No thanks.” He looked at Alan and grinned. “We make quite a pair, yeah?”  
  
Alan huffed his agreement, but he felt relief beyond expectation that things seemed to be so normal with Dave. He wasn’t holding a grudge, he didn’t seem the slightest bit angry or offended – he was just Dave.  
  
Alan sat down on his bed with a great sigh, and flopped onto his back. “I think I could sleep through the rest of the week,” he said. He heard a rustling, and lifted his head just enough to watch Dave dig his antibiotics out of the paper bag. Dave squinted at the label.  
  
“It’s in German,” he said. “But you’re probably supposed to take it with food. That’s what I always do.”  
  
Alan let his head fall back. “I find it very unsettling that you have a regular system for taking antibiotics.”  
  
“They’re like vitamins,” Dave said, his voice fading as he went into the bathroom. Alan heard the sink, and Dave returned a moment later and sat next to him on the bed. “My doctor says I should take them before I get sick. Preventive medicine and all that.”  
  
He handed a pill to Alan.  
  
“Or maybe you should just take better care of yourself,” Alan said.  
  
“I’m not the one slicing up my own hand in the pantry,” Dave said, and he grabbed Alan by the arm and hoisted him up. “C’mon, take your medicine like a good lad. Now what do you want to eat?”  
  
Alan swallowed the pill and set the water on the nightstand. “Thanks, Dr. Gahan, but I think I’ll skip dinner, or breakfast. What the hell time is it anyway?”  
  
“I told you, you’ve got to eat something.”  
  
“Dave, thank you, really, but I just want to go to bed.”  
  
“So, I’ll just order you up a cheese sandwich, then? And some chips?”  
  
“Fine,” Alan said. “And get something for yourself too.”  
  
“You’re a prince, Al,” Dave said, and picked up the phone.  
  
The food was fast to arrive, given how late it was. By the time he’d finished half his sandwich Alan felt like he was about to fall over asleep where he sat. They ate at the little table in the corner, and Dave filled him in on the work they’d done in the studio after Mart had taken Alan to the hospital. Dave said he’d needed at least a dozen more takes to get the song down, but he felt good about it now.  
  
“Thank God,” Alan said.  
  
“Thank Gareth, actually,” Dave said. “Poor bloke looked like he wanted to jump on a plane and pretend like he’d never met the lot of us. He probably thought I was going to start crying on his shoulder or something. But he hung in there. Fletch, of course, thought it was all very entertaining.”  
  
“Two weeks he’s been sitting on that couch waiting for something interesting to happen,” Alan said. “We must’ve made his day.”  
  
“His year, more like it,” Dave said, and they laughed.  
  
They sat in easy silence for a few minutes, Alan picking at his chips and Dave eating the bacon out of the second half of his club sandwich. Alan finally decided he couldn’t avoid the obvious anymore. Tired as he was, they had things to discuss.  
  
“Look, Dave, about yesterday.”  
  
“I already told you, mate. It’s fine,” Dave said.  
  
“No, not that,” Alan said. “Day before yesterday, I guess. At the club.”  
  
“Oh.”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
Dave balled up his napkin and pushed his plate away.  
  
“I’m sorry, if I made it seem like, I don’t know, like it didn’t matter. I mean, in the kitchen,” Alan said. “When I said-. Well, you know, what I said. What I mean is, of course it’s personal.”  
  
Dave blinked at him, and his mouth quirked into a crooked smile. “Wow. You are really not making a bit of sense.”  
  
“I know,” Alan said, and buried his face in his hands. He winced – the shot the doctor had given him was starting to wear off and his injured hand was throbbing again.  
  
“You want some aspirin or something?” Dave said.  
  
“No, I really just want to sleep.” Alan ran a hand through his hair. “Dave, we really should-”  
  
Dave waved him off. “Not tonight,” he said. “We can talk tomorrow. All right?”  
  
Alan had never much liked to delay the inevitable – he preferred to just plow ahead and get the deed done. But he was truly exhausted, and Dave didn’t look much better off, so he nodded. Dave got up and stacked their plates on the room service tray, and he picked up his jacket from the back of the chair he’d laid it on.  
  
“You know,” Alan said, fidgeting with the bandage on his hand. “You could stay here tonight. If you wanted.”  
  
Dave smiled at him, and it was a bittersweet sort of smile –kind and thoughtful, but maybe a little bit patronizing too, Alan thought with a mental wince.  
  
“I think that’d be a bad idea,” Dave said. He stopped beside Alan, and his fingers brushed over Alan’s hair. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Al.”  
  
  
  
+++  
  
  
  
Alan fell asleep so hard and fast that he didn’t even remember closing his eyes – one minute he’d stripped to his underwear and climbed between the sheets, and the next minute the telephone next to the bed was ringing shrilly, startling him awake. Alan grabbed blindly for the phone.  
  
“’Lo?”  
  
“Alan? You all right?” It was Dan.  
  
Alan mumbled back something that was meant to be “yes” but came out as a groan.  
  
“Oh, shit, are you ill? Do you need a doctor?” Dan didn’t sound panicked or concerned so much as very busy. “Hold on, I’m coming right over.”  
  
Alan cleared his throat and said quickly, “No, I’m fine. I just woke up.”  
  
“You’re sure.”  
  
“Right as rain,” Alan said.  
  
“And the hand is okay?”  
  
Alan flexed his fingers, and balled his hand into a careful fist. He felt a small pull on the stitches, but there was no pain. “I’m fine,” he said.  
  
“Okay, good,” Dan said. “Go back to sleep. We’ll see you at the studio in a few hours.”  
  
The phone clicked dead. Alan wiped a hand over his eyes and glanced at the clock as he put back the handset. It was only 10. He groaned and rolled back over in the bed. But now that he was awake, it seemed his brain was ready to reengage – already the events that had overrun his life over the past few days were bouncing around his head, clamoring for attention. Alan gave up trying to go back to sleep after a few minutes.  
  
He had several hours before he needed to be back at the studio, and it dawned him that he hadn’t spent more than an hour alone – not counting when he was asleep – since he’d been in Berlin. He tended to think best when he was alone in a studio, or playing piano, but neither of those was an option at the moment. Some quality time with just himself and his camera might be a good substitute, though. And anyway, it sounded nice just to go outside and explore.  
  
Alan took a shower and got dressed, and he sped through a breakfast of coffee and toast and an antibiotic and then grabbed his camera and headed out. It was a warm but overcast day, which was good for taking photos because he wouldn’t have to fight the sunlight and shadows. Alan took off at random and before long he’d reached the Wall. He turned left, in the opposite direction from Hansa. Not far along was a border crossing between east and west Berlin, and Alan stopped for a moment and snapped some photos. The guards looked unhappy, frowning at him and leaning in to say things to each other that Alan couldn’t hear, but they didn’t ask him to stop. After a few minutes Alan decided not to press his luck, and he moved further up the Wall.  
  
He took some photos of particularly colorful graffiti, but there weren’t many people out and he preferred shooting people to scenery. Eventually Alan veered away from the Wall and turned down the first street that looked interesting. He was ready to get lost for a while.  
  
Alan’s mind wandered as he walked, with half an eye out for photos. He thought a little about the work they were doing in the studio, and what he wanted to do with the songs that were left. He thought about going back to London, and whether he should finally call his father again. But mostly Alan thought about Dave.  
  
The anger had faded to a dull disappointment. He was relieved, of course – thrilled, in fact, that Dave seemed willing to just let everything go back to normal. That should have been enough, but this was where Alan’s brain was refusing to cooperate: he couldn’t stop thinking about kissing Dave, and touching him, and being near him. While it would have been easy to blame their kiss on alcohol, or even getting caught up in the spirit of his first visit to a gay club, Alan had never been very good at lying to himself. He’d wanted Dave – he’d wanted him two nights ago, and he wanted him now. Maybe he’d wanted Dave for a long time.  
  
If he’d just wanted to sleep with Dave, that wouldn’t have posed much of a dilemma. Alan could keep his dick in his trousers when he needed to, despite whatever a string of one-night stands on the road might say. The problem was that he didn’t just want to fuck Dave – he wanted a whole hell of a lot more than that, he now realized. The overwhelming relief he’d felt the night before, when Dave had shown up at the hospital, had taken him by such surprise that he’d been numb with it. He hadn’t wanted to fuck Dave at the hospital, or even kiss him – he’d wanted to hold him. He’d wanted to be held. He’d just wanted to look at him, and see that everything was all right.  
  
And wasn’t that just the fucking kick to the gut – Dave, who was so painfully naive, and so painfully unattainable. Alan had no idea what Dave was thinking and feeling, except that he’d been hurt when Alan had pushed him away. So maybe this all meant something to Dave too, and just the thought of that made Alan’s stomach flip with pleasure. But it might be a terrible thing – because no good could possibly come of it.  
  
Dave was beautiful and charming and wickedly smart and funny, but he needed more than Alan could give. Dave needed someone to look after him, and for that someone to need him in kind. He needed a woman: a home and a family and a life outside the band that meant something. Alan couldn’t give him any of that – he could only take it away.  
  
But knowing all of that didn’t help with the tug of disappointment in Alan’s gut.  
  
Alan realized he’d walked a few blocks without taking any pictures, and though the sun was still hidden behind the clouds, he thought it must be getting on in the afternoon. He looked around and tried to get his bearings, and he saw the Victory Column poking over the tops of the trees in Tiergarten. He had no idea he’d walked so far. He turned up a street that he thought would take him back in the direction of the hotel, and just up ahead he spotted an old church. Berlin had lots of churches, and Alan tended to let his eyes move past them without a thought, but this one was interesting for what it was missing – the top of the spire was gone.  
  
He couldn’t resist snapping a picture, then Alan walked up to the church. It seemed as though the spire had been torn right off, and Alan imagined the damage must have been done during the war. He took a few pictures up close, walking right up to the gate that circled the church yard. It looked as though there was some kind of work being done on the building, although the place was quiet at the moment. Alan felt a weird and desperate urge to go inside the building, to see if there was a gaping hole over the altar. The church was really quite beautiful, even without the spire, but it almost hurt to look at it and think of the terrible injury done to it.  
  
Alan took one more picture, and as he walked back to the hotel, he couldn’t shake the odd melancholy that had settled over him. The walk had cleared his head, but he didn’t feel any better for it.  
  
  
  
+++  
  
  
  
There was some proper fussing over Alan when he arrived at the studio later. Gareth wanted to see the sutures, which Alan refused, and Dan, who’d obviously been given a watered down version of the previous day’s events, just told him to be more careful – they had a lot invested in his hands, after all. Fletch rolled his eyes at that, but gave him a gruff one-armed hug.  
  
They set to work on finishing “Two Minute Warning.” Dan was pleased with the changes they’d made, both to Alan’s bridge and Dave’s vocals, and by dinner time he’d signed off on the final mix of the song. When Dave showed up there was about five seconds of awkwardness as everyone except Dan waited to see if there would be some sort of blow-up, but Dave, in typical Dave fashion, took care of that.  
  
“Well,” he said, looking Alan up and down, “you look healthy enough. I suppose we won’t have to put another ad in the Melody Maker, then.”  
  
Then he punched Alan on the arm and grinned when Alan yelped in surprise and pain.  
  
“Keep that up and you may be out another keyboardist yet,” Alan said, rubbing his arm.  
  
Fletch walked up between them and threw his arms over both their shoulders. “C’mon, lads. Enough of that. Can’t have Depeche Mode known as the band that keeps misplacing its members.”  
  
“Or killing them,” Alan said, but when he caught Dave’s eye he laughed.  
  
They all went down to the Hansa restaurant for dinner, since they needed to take a break anyway before starting on a new song. “Pipeline” was up next, and everyone was enthusiastic since they’d all spent several days collecting sounds in London; even Fletch had a lot of thoughts on what all should go into it. Dave in particular seemed eager to get started, and Alan wondered at that – perhaps it was less stressful for him, because the pressure wasn’t on his vocals, or perhaps it was one of the few songs in which he’d been an active participant in the recording aside from just singing.  
  
Whatever the reason, Alan was glad to see it, even if there was a part of him that felt a ridiculous sort of loneliness to see Dave looking happy. He knew it was selfish of him, and at least he’d let go of the anger of the previous day, but he couldn’t help wanting to see Dave hurt, just a little bit. Instead, he was laughing and smiling, and flirting. Alan knew it wasn’t intentional – flirting came to Dave like breathing, or like singing. Over dinner he winked at Gareth, and he sat for a long time with one arm draped over the back of Martin’s chair, and for several excruciating minutes he laughed so hard that he bent over double and nearly collapsed into Fletch’s lap. Alan, sitting across the table from the three of them, smiled along even as his jaw ached from grinding his teeth together. When Dave finally looked up and caught his eye, his laughter faded away and he sat up straight, and Alan felt both guilty and glad.  
  
Alan knew it wouldn’t be this way forever. At some point, probably sooner rather than later, they’d find their equilibrium again, and they might even joke someday about that kiss they’d exchanged in Berlin, when they were young and stupid. But that day felt a long way off at the moment.  
  
Fortunately, when they returned to the studio the excitement of working on a new song took over and the enthusiasm from dinner carried into the control room. Even Dan was laughing and joking with the band and Gareth. They laid down some absurd mixes, just to see what would happen, and while the vast majority of them were truly dreadful, they also discovered two or three interesting combinations that Alan thought were fairly likely to make it into the final song. By midnight they’d made a fair amount of progress, but Dan was getting a bit tired of playing with the samples and he started snapping at Gareth, which sapped some of the fun out of the room.  
  
Martin and Fletch left to check out another club – Alan got the feeling this one was a bit on the seedy side, because Fletch had asked what Anne would think and Mart had said it didn’t matter what Anne would think because she’d never have to find out. Alan was relieved when Dave chose not to go with them. Dan left soon after, and Alan didn’t suggest that Dave leave too, even though the work they were doing was very technical and frankly beyond Alan’s grasp, never mind Dave’s. But the atmosphere in the studio was productive and warm, and it felt good to be sitting next to Dave, and talking to him about music and sounds and songwriting – and things that mattered less, like whether Martin had taken Fletch to an S & M club that night.  
  
They worked until nearly dawn, until Gareth’s eyes were practically crossing from staring at a computer screen all day. Alan and Dave waited for Gareth to shut down all of their equipment and lock up the control room. Gareth said his goodbyes – he was staying in a rented flat just a block away – and Alan and Dave walked back to the Intercontinental, their voices lowered in the thick, pre-dawn light.  
  
“So what does one do at an S & M club, exactly?” Alan said. He buried his hands deep in his jeans pockets. He kept forgetting that it still got cold at night in Berlin.  
  
“I dunno,” Dave said with a shrug. “I suppose there’s a lot of whipping.”  
  
Alan cringed in distaste. “That sounds painful.”  
  
“Well, yeah, that’s the point, mate,” Dave said with a laugh. “But I know what you mean. I prefer my sex not involve extreme pain and torture.”  
  
“Or humiliation,” Alan said. “Or blood.”  
  
Dave made a hilarious look of disgust. “Or any other human bodily fluids for that matter. Other than the obvious ones, of course.”  
  
“Of course,” Alan said. He chuckled softly. “I guess we’re quite boring in the sack, aren’t we?”  
  
“Hey, speak for yourself,” Dave said. “I’ll have you know that I’m trained in more than a dozen different sexual positions. And not all of them are in a bed.”  
  
Alan laughed. “Trained, yeah? Something you picked up from those thugs you hung out with in Bas, more likely. No thanks.”  
  
“You don’t know what you’re missing, mate,” Dave said, and bumped him with his shoulder. Alan stumbled a little, and grabbed Dave’s arm to keep from falling. When he’d regained his balance, he realized he was standing very close to Dave, and they both stood frozen for a moment before Alan took a step back, letting go of Dave.  
  
“No, I guess I don’t,” Alan said.  
  
Dave blinked, and looked up into his face, and the emotion there was so raw that Alan hurt to see it. Dave looked as though he was torn between wanting to haul Alan up against the wall and kiss him until dawn, or sit down on the sidewalk and have a good cry – or maybe just punch Alan in the face. For all that Alan had wanted to see Dave hurting earlier in the day, he now felt awful seeing Dave so unhappy.  
  
“Dave,” Alan said, and reached for him.  
  
But Dave shook his head and stepped out of reach. He took a deep breath and Alan could see the tension in his back and shoulders, but when he looked up again he was smiling, even if it was weak and a little watery.  
  
“We’re here,” Dave said, and Alan looked up, surprised to find that they were standing just outside the hotel. Dave opened the main door for him and they walked inside. They rode the lift in silence, and when they got to their floor, Dave said a quick goodnight, and disappeared into his room, leaving Alan confused and very alone in the hallway. It was only when he was climbing into bed that he realized that for all the talking they’d done that night, they’d avoided the one subject that needed to be addressed the most.  
  
  
  
+++  
  
  
  
And they didn’t address it the next day either, or the day after that. Dave came to the studio armed as if prepared for battle – in almost every way, he was exactly the same Dave that Alan had known all along. He was charming and fun and the energy in the studio seemed to double, at least, whenever he arrived. He flirted and he played pranks on Fletch that made his face turn red in frustration. He was the only one who could almost always get a laugh out of Dan. Alan wouldn’t go quite so far as to say it was all forced, but it was obvious, at least to him, that Dave was trying, very hard, to be normal. Alan feared that it was as much for his benefit as for Dave’s – and he didn’t want Dave to feel like he had to be careful with him.  
  
So all in all, Alan felt awkward because Dave wasn’t being awkward. Which was about as daft a situation as Alan had ever been in. Sometimes, Alan thought, he probably made life more difficult than it had to be. The truth was, things really did feel normal, and Alan was already getting used to it again, as best he could.  
  
It helped that the album was really coming together. They were halfway through the songs and Alan was impressed with what they’d accomplished so far. With a few exceptions, he thought they’d come up with something new and truly innovative, maybe even revolutionary. He’d certainly never heard anything quite like it before.  
  
After “Pipeline” they got to “And Then,” which started out well enough but hit a road block when Alan wanted to crank up the bass starting with the first bridge and Martin refused, saying the melody couldn’t support it. It was actually an old argument – they’d had the same difference of opinion during the recording, but at the time they’d both been a bit shy about it, still feeling each other out in the studio and testing the boundaries of their working relationship. They’d eventually compromised – Martin had allowed the bass to pick up in the bridge, and Alan had agreed to tamp it down – but even at the time, Alan had known neither of them had been satisfied.  
  
Now, a couple of months and countless studio arguments later, neither of them were willing to budge.  
  
“Without the bass you’ve just got a somewhat clever but basically boring pop song,” Alan said.  
  
“It’s not boring, and besides, I’m not saying throw the bass out entirely,” Mart said. He was sitting on the couch, slumped into a corner with his shoulders drawn and his arms folded over his chest.  
  
“Let me just play it one more time,” Alan said. He reached over Gareth to start the song. “If you just listen-”  
  
“Bloody hell, Al, I’ve been listening all fucking day,” Martin said.  
  
“We’ve  _all_  been listening,” said Fletch, who was sitting on the other end of the sofa, a magazine in his lap.  
  
Alan rolled his eyes. “Oh, I’m so sorry if I’ve interrupted your reading hour.”  
  
“Sod off,” Fletch said. “Look, we’ve been over it a hundred times, and we’re all agreed that Mart’s version is better. Let it go, Slick.”  
  
“We’re not all agreed,” Alan said. “And stop calling me Slick. I hate that bloody name.”  
  
“Fine,  _Alan_. We’re most of us agreed,” Fletch said. He didn’t need to add that the important people were in agreement – the songwriter and his best mate.  
  
“Maybe we should just play it for Dan when he gets back,” said Dave, who’d been notably silent during the argument.  
  
Fletch threw up his hands. “We can’t go running off to Dan every time Al puts on his musico hat and insists none of us knows what we’re doing.”  
  
“I’m not some bloody musical snob,” Alan said.  
  
Fletch scoffed. “Like you don’t think you could play circles around any one of us.”  
  
“Actually, I could,” Alan said, which caused Fletch to choke in a very satisfying way. “But that’s not the bloody point. Mart, you’re wrong about the bass.”  
  
Martin shrugged, his leather jacket bunching up around his ears, but he didn’t say anything or even so much as make eye contact. It was infuriating as hell when he did that, just clammed up and refused to even have a discussion.  
  
Alan groaned in frustration and pushed back from the console. He was on the verge of saying something – actually, a whole bunch of somethings – that he knew he’d regret. “I need a smoke,” he said, and stood up.  
  
No one stopped him as he left the studio, but he wasn’t surprised when halfway down the stairs he heard someone following after him. He stopped at the bottom and waited, and Dave came up next to him. They walked out of the building together, and Alan gave Dave a cigarette and lit them both. He took two quick hits, closing his eyes as the chemicals hit his bloodstream and made his head rush. But the tension was still there and he started walking, just trying to burn off some of the fight in him.  
  
They followed the perimeter of the building, and when they’d reached the back and Alan still hadn’t said anything, Dave stopped him with a hand on his arm. Alan thought it might have been the first time Dave had touched him in days.  
  
“You all right?” Dave said.  
  
Alan nodded, then said, “Actually, no. They’re fucking idiots, the both of them.”  
  
“Okay, maybe sometimes, yeah,” Dave said. “But you can’t let them get to you like that, Al.”  
  
“I can when they’re being stubborn bastards,” Alan said, and he started pacing again. “Mart’s a bloody good songwriter, but sometimes it’s like he’s got no fucking respect for the music. It’s baffling, you know? And it’s really fucking disgraceful.”  
  
“Nah, mate, he’s just being Mart,” Dave said. “Sometimes he just gets set in his ways is all.”  
  
“That’d be one thing, but he’s so bloody schizophrenic sometimes,” Alan said. He took a drag of his cigarette and blew out a hard puff of smoke. “One day he can’t be bothered to give a shit about his songs, the next he’s being a stubborn git and won’t listen to reason.”  
  
“He’ll listen if you can get Fletch on your side,” Dave said diplomatically.  
  
“Fuck, don’t even get me started on Fletch,” Alan said. “What the bloody hell does he even do? I don’t think he has a musical bone in his body.”  
  
Dave laughed and said, “Took you long enough to figure that one out.”  
  
Alan sighed and dropped his cigarette on the ground, stubbing it out with his boot. He leaned against the wall and closed his eyes.  
  
“I know I’m not being fair, it’s just so bloody frustrating,” Alan said. “The band is good. It’s  _very_  good. But sometimes I just want to bash my head into the console and call it a day.”  
  
Alan banged his fists into the wall, his whole body coiled in frustration. The hit felt good, so he lifted his arms to do it again, but Dave stepped in and grabbed his wrists, holding them tight.  
  
“Don’t do that,” Dave said.  
  
Alan’s pulse was rushing with anger, and he was breathing hard, and Dave’s hands were squeezing his arms, and fuck it, fuck everything, Alan was tired of being frustrated. He yanked his arms free and grabbed Dave by the shoulders and he kissed him, hard and furious. It was only a second before Dave was kissing him back and Alan growled a little in the back of his throat. He devoured Dave. He kissed him with no finesse – he stuck his tongue down his throat, tasting his teeth and his cheeks and the roof of his mouth, and when he couldn’t breathe he pulled back to suck Dave’s lower lip between his teeth, and then he kissed him some more. Dave moaned into his mouth and Alan felt his hands circle his waist, his fingers curling over Alan’s backside. Alan gripped Dave’s hips, digging into his skin, and tugged him impossibly closer.  
  
They’d been kissing for some long minutes when Dave finally pulled away, his lips red and swollen. He licked them and Alan thought that was the sexiest thing he’d seen in a long while.  
  
“Al,” Dave said, panting. “Look, I know you said we shouldn’t-”  
  
“Oh, fuck that,” Alan said. “C’mere.”  
  
He grabbed Dave by the front of his shirt and kissed the smile right off his face.

 


	7. Chapter 7

_There was a time_  
 _when all on my mind was love_  
 _Now I find that most of the time_  
 _love’s not enough in itself_  
-Love, In Itself  
  
  
  
Alan lost track of time. He tangled his fingers in Dave’s hair, and wrapped an arm around Dave’s waist to keep him close, to keep their bodies pressed together. He could feel Dave’s erection, hard and hot, pushing against his hip, and he ground his own hip against it until Dave moaned into his mouth. Alan kissed him like they had no time, like he had to take everything right now, and Dave was ruthless in return, his tongue pushing into Alan’s mouth and scraping against his teeth. Alan tasted cigarettes and the sickly sweet cola Dave liked to drink, and he tasted something warm and familiar, something safe. When Dave pulled back to breathe Alan chased after him, pressing kisses to his lips and the rise of bone beneath his eyes, to the tip of his nose and the point of his chin. He sucked on Dave’s jaw, and he licked a path around the curve of Dave’s ear.  
  
He could have gone on kissing Dave for hours, and he slid a hand under Dave’s shirt. But the skin there was cold and goose-bumped, and Dave shivered under Alan’s fingers. Alan blinked his eyes open, and only then realized it had gotten dark outside. He laughed softly into Dave’s ear.  
  
“What’s so funny?” Dave said. He was breathless, and he moved his head to find Alan’s lips again, not waiting for an answer before he started kissing.  
  
Alan groaned and sucked Dave’s tongue into his mouth, but now he realized he was cold too and it was becoming a distraction. He pulled away long enough to mutter, “Dave,” but that just seemed to get Dave more excited and he squeezed Alan’s butt and started sucking on his neck, hard enough that Alan was sure he was leaving marks. Alan tilted his head to the side to give him more room, even as he mumbled a protest.  
  
“You’re cold,” Alan said, and Dave bit his neck, just above the collarbone. “Fuck, that’s good.”  
  
Dave licked at the hollow of Alan’s neck, and Alan gripped his head, tugging at his short hair.  
  
“Dave. Dave.” He looked up, his eyes half-lidded and sexy as fuck, and Alan leaned forward to bite his ear and whisper, “We should get inside.”  
  
Dave shook his head. “Not done with you yet.”  
  
His words went straight to Alan’s dick, and he banged his head back against the wall. He felt Dave laugh, a rumble pressed right up against his chest, and Dave squeezed Alan’s butt one more time before rubbing his hands up Alan’s back, under his shirt. Alan shivered – Dave’s hands were so hot on his cool skin.  
  
“Yeah, all right,” Dave said with a chuckle, in between laying kisses up the side of Alan’s neck. “Let’s go.”  
  
They didn’t – it still took them another five minutes, Alan guessed, but finally they were both shaking badly from the cold and when Alan realized he was rubbing Dave’s arms for warmth more than pleasure, he groaned in frustration and pushed away from the wall, taking Dave with him.  
  
“This isn’t over,” he said, pointing a finger at Dave.  
  
Dave took the finger between his teeth, biting hard enough to hurt and licking the tip. His tongue was unbelievably hot and Alan moaned, just looking at his finger sucked between Dave’s lips. Dave was grinning when he finally let go, and Alan had to adjust himself before he started walking back to the front of the studio. They stopped one more time for Alan to grab Dave around the waist and kiss him until they were both panting and Dave couldn’t walk a straight line.  
  
The good thing about the cold was that by the time they got to the main door, Alan’s erection had wilted, and they both had a good excuse for the obvious flush in their cheeks. Alan held the door open for Dave, and he laughed when Dave leaned in to give him a chaste kiss on the mouth before going inside. They both sighed audibly as they stepped into the warmth of the studio.  
  
“Thank fuck for central heating,” Dave said, tucking his hands under his armpits. “How long do you think we were gone?”  
  
“Dunno,” Alan said, glancing around for a clock. He couldn’t find one, so he shrugged. “Guess we’ll find out. Hopefully it was long enough for those two to come to their senses.”  
  
“Yeah, Al, about that,” Dave said. He suddenly looked very uncomfortable, and not just from the cold. He wouldn’t meet Alan’s eyes.  
  
“Oh, come on,” Alan said, realization settling in. “Please don’t tell me you fucking agree with them.”  
  
Dave threw up his hands. “The bass is too bloody loud!”  
  
“It’s not-“ Alan stopped himself, and shook his head with a rueful laugh. “Actually, you know what? Fine. Three against one, I can’t beat those numbers. I don’t know why I bother.”  
  
Dave wrapped an arm over Alan’s shoulders and pulled him toward the stairs. “You do it for the art, man. It’s for the art.”  
  
“Oh, sod off,” Alan said, but he was smiling, and he was basking in the warmth of Dave’s arm around him. But when they got to the top of the stairs a new thought made him pause. “How come you didn’t say anything earlier? When we were fighting over the bass? Because if you’re keeping your mouth shut just so you don’t have to disagree with me in front of the others, that’s bollocks. Just because there’s this thing, whatever it is, going on between us, you can’t be all careful around me, yeah?”  
  
Dave rolled his eyes and slapped his palm against the back of Alan’s head. “Don’t be an idiot, Al. I didn’t say anything because Fletch was being a bastard and I couldn’t give him the satisfaction of agreeing with him.”  
  
“Oh,” Alan said. “Well, good then.”  
  
“I’m always happy to disagree with you,” Dave said.  
  
“I’m glad to hear it.”  
  
“Especially when your souped up bass line is going to ruin my vocals.”  
  
Alan shook his head and sighed pathetically, but he knew he couldn’t hide his smile. “I work with morons. Useless. The whole lot of you.”  
  
Everyone looked up when Alan and Dave walked into the control room again. There was an odd hush, and it was obvious everyone had stopped talking the minute the door opened. Fletch got up from the couch and made a show of walking up to Dave and looking him up and down.  
  
“So you’re alive, then? And no stab wounds?” Fletch said. He tilted his head and frowned. “Why’s your neck all red? He didn’t try to strangle you, did he?”  
  
Dave slapped his hand to his neck, and Alan quickly glanced at him. The skin really was a little raw looking.  
  
“He’s got a rash,” Alan said. Dave glared hard at him. “It’s probably nothing infectious.”  
  
Fletch took a large step back, his mouth twisted into a grimace. “So where were you two anyway? You’ve been gone nearly an hour.”  
  
Alan was a little surprised they’d been outside that long. It was no wonder his lips were chapped. He licked them, and he couldn’t help but think of the hot, slick slide of Dave’s tongue. Alan could hardly wait to get him back to the hotel.  
  
“Went for a nice walk is all,” Dave said. “Al’s changed his mind about the bass.”  
  
This time it was Alan’s turn to glare, but Dave just smirked at him, crossing his arms over his chest. Dave had very nice arms. Strong and wiry.  
  
“Yeah? You’ve come around, then?” Fletch said.  
  
Alan tore his eyes away from the smooth, tanned skin of Dave’s forearms and looked at Fletch. “Sure,” he said, and he grinned, just to see the surprise on Fletch’s face. “It’s just a bass line, anyway.”  
  
  
  
+++  
  
  
  
It was another five excruciating hours before Alan and Dave could escape. Everyone took up their usual positions – Alan and Gareth at the main console, Fletch and Martin on the couch, and Dave, sitting in a rolling chair right in the middle of the room. Dave kept touching his neck and scratching his stomach and sitting there with his legs spread wide. He was such a bloody tease. When Alan got up to get a cup of coffee, Dave followed him to the kitchen and Alan was relieved that they made it out in only five minutes, and no one suffered third-degree burns in unfortunate places.  
  
Martin and Fletch left at midnight, and Alan had been counting on making his excuses and following them out, but Gareth had decided that it was past time for Alan to learn everything about the Emulator software they were using in Hansa, and naturally his lessons must begin immediately. Alan was torn for almost a full minute – he’d been dying to learn how to use the software himself, but Dan and Gareth had been too busy actually using it to bother teaching him – but then Dave had stretched and his shirt had pulled up, revealing a delicious strip of skin across his lower back.  
  
“Sorry, I’m knackered, mate,” Alan said. Dave lowered his arms and adjusted his shirt, and when he turned to look at Alan over his shoulder, he had a very smug smile on his face.  
  
“Yeah, all right,” Gareth said. He sounded disappointed and Alan felt a little guilty, but mostly he felt that if he didn’t leave the studio right that minute he was going to be forced to throw Dave over the main console and ravish him right in front of Gareth – and really, no one wanted that.  
  
“Okay then, see you tomorrow,” Alan said, and he grabbed Dave by the upper arm and tugged him out the door.  
  
Dave stopped him on the top of the stairs, one hand fisted in Alan’s hair to tilt his head just right for a brief but violent kiss. He stopped him again at the bottom of the stairs for some more. When Dave tried to pull Alan into the main hall that was Studio Two, Alan groaned and said, “Fuck, Dave, let’s just get back to the hotel already.”  
  
“There’s beds at the hotel,” Dave said, smiling hungrily.  
  
“Exactly.”  
  
“Let’s go.”  
  
They very nearly ran back to the hotel. When they got to the lobby and the lift wasn’t there immediately, Alan said, “Stairs?” and Dave pulled him by the hand toward the service stairs. Alan thought it showed amazing restraint that neither of them ended up thrown against a wall and ravaged in the empty stairwell.  
  
They went to Alan’s room, just because his was closest, and as soon as the door closed Dave had his hands under Alan’s shirt, and he tugged it up over his head. He threw the shirt over his shoulder and pounced on Alan, sucking hard at his collarbone, at the soft hollow of his shoulder, at the tendons in his neck.  
  
“Jesus,” Alan said. He fisted a hand in Dave’s hair and pulled him up, and then Alan kissed him. It was frantic and hot, and Alan felt like he could live off of this – survive off of Dave’s mouth, his tongue, his lips. Dave was firm and hard and hot. He was nothing like a woman, and he was so very familiar. Their kisses slowed until their tongues were almost lazy, ducking into each others’ mouths and just tasting, exploring. Alan slipped his hands under Dave’s shirt and up his sides, tracing the ridges of his ribs.  
  
Alan pulled away just enough to take off Dave’s shirt, and then he pressed into him again, wrapping his arms around Dave’s waist. The feel of Dave’s bare chest and belly against his own was a physical shock, and Alan gasped with it, even as Dave caught him with another kiss.  
  
“You feel so good, Al,” Dave said between kisses. “You have no idea how long I’ve been wanting this.”  
  
“How long?” Alan said, but Dave just chuckled against his mouth.  
  
“Come on,” Dave said. He reached down to tug Alan’s arms away from his waist, and he took one of Alan’s hands and led him into the room. “I’m pretty sure there’s a bed in here.”  
  
They stumbled toward the bed, and at the edge Dave stopped him and slid his hands under the waist of Alan’s jeans and underwear, until he was palming Alan’s arse. Even Dave’s fingers were hard and hot, and they pressed greedily into Alan’s skin. Alan groaned and thrust his erection into Dave’s hip. He grabbed at Dave’s shoulders for balance.  
  
“Get these off,” Dave said, and removed his hands so he could work the zipper of Alan’s jeans. He opened the fly and shoved the jeans down to Alan’s thighs, and Alan did the rest himself, kicking off his shoes so he could pull the jeans all the way off. When he was standing in nothing but his briefs he reached out and tugged at the buttons of Dave’s trousers, but he couldn’t get his fingers to work and Dave finally laughed and swatted his hands away. He managed the buttons himself and quickly shucked his trousers and let them drop to the floor.  
  
“Bed,” Alan said, and pushed Dave back onto the mattress.  
  
Dave rolled onto his back and Alan stretched out next to him, lying on his side and pushing up on one elbow so he could look down on Dave’s face. Now that they were both down to their underwear, Alan let his eyes roam the length of Dave’s body. He’d seen Dave like this before – in just his underwear, even lounging around – but he’d never had the luxury of looking. Now he took his time, studying Dave’s feet, which were bare and bony and seemed almost delicate, and his thin calves and strong thighs, and his eyes moved up to Dave’s groin, where Alan could make out the hard outline of his erection. Dave’s chest was smooth, and the muscles in his chest and abdomen were thin and ropy. Alan traced them with the palm of his hand.  
  
Dave ran his fingers through Alan’s hair, soft and easy like an afterthought, and it felt somehow more intimate than anything else he’d done.  
  
“You ever been with a bloke before?” Dave said.  
  
Alan shook his head and looked Dave in the eye. “No.”  
  
“Me neither,” Dave said.  
  
“Never?”  
  
Dave laughed softly. “You’re surprised?”  
  
“Well, no. I guess not,” Alan said. And it was true – a part of him may have assumed that Dave had experience with men, but now that he thought about it, it wasn’t surprising that this was all new to Dave, too. It was a relief, though, and a tension that Alan hadn’t even noticed before skittered away, leaving him feeling buoyant and relaxed. He laid his palm flat, in the center of Dave’s chest.  
  
“So this is the first time for both of us,” Dave said.  
  
“Looks like it,” Alan said.  
  
“Then we’d better make it count,” Dave said, and he tugged Alan’s head down.  
  
They kissed like it truly was their first time – careful and earnest, their tongues meeting in the middle, just tasting and testing each other. Alan brushed his fingers down the side of Dave’s face, which was stubbly and warm, and he sifted through his hair to palm the back of his head, and just hold him there. They kissed like that for a long time, until Alan felt drunk with it, dizzy and light-headed, and he pulled away. Dave grunted and tried to follow him, but Alan placed a hand on his chest, and when Dave opened his eyes, Alan grinned at him.  
  
“Feel like I could do this forever,” Alan said. “But what do you suppose comes next?”  
  
He pressed his erection against Dave’s thigh, and Dave laughed.  
  
“Impatient bastard, aren’t you?” Dave said with a grin.  
  
“You’re the one who says he’s been waiting a long time.”  
  
Dave’s smile turned soft, and he reached up to lay a hand on Alan’s cheek, his thumb stroking along Alan’s jaw. “Feels like years,” Dave said, even though they both knew that was impossible. Alan felt his heart hammering in his chest, and the fondness in Dave’s eyes, the intensity there, was almost overwhelming. Alan closed his eyes and let Dave pull him down for a soft, slow kiss on the mouth.  
  
Just as Alan was getting lost again, relaxing into the easy play of their tongues and lips, Dave shifted and tucked his hand between their bodies, and he pressed his palm against Alan’s cock.  
  
“Fuck, yes,” Alan said, and let his head fall forward onto Dave’s shoulder.  
  
Dave stroked him through his briefs and said, “I know I’m new at all this, but I’m pretty sure we’re going to need to get rid of some more clothes.”  
  
Alan laughed softly, but he rolled onto his back and lifted his hips off the bed so Dave could slide down his briefs. Before Alan could kick them the rest of the way off, Dave’s hand was on his erection. Alan moaned and forgot about the underwear, still wrapped around one ankle. He fell onto his back but instantly lifted his head, watching Dave’s hand on his cock. He moved in slow, uneven strokes, stopping sometimes to rub a thumb over the top. Alan thought it probably should have been strange, seeing another man’s hand on his erection, but it was actually an incredible turn-on. His neck was aching from holding up his head but he couldn’t look away.  
  
Dave bent over to kiss him, and his hand started moving faster, pumping now, and it was different than what Alan was used to – the rhythm wasn’t quite right, and he wanted it harder, tighter. But the pressure building in his balls and the base of his dick, anyway, and finally Alan groaned into Dave’s mouth and wrapped his hand around Dave’s wrist, stopping him.  
  
Dave lifted his head and frowned. “What’s wrong?”  
  
“Nothing,” Alan said, panting. “I want to touch you.”  
  
“God, yes,” Dave said, letting his forehead fall against Alan’s for a moment. He gave Alan’s cock a firm squeeze that made Alan’s hips jerk, then he rolled onto his back and took off his boxers, kicking them off the bed.  
  
“In a bit of a hurry, are we?” Alan said with a laugh. Dave groaned and lifted his hips invitingly.  
  
In truth Alan was, finally, nervous. He’d been waiting for the anxiety to set in – the awkwardness of being with a man for the first time. But none of that had mattered. It still didn’t. But here was Dave, laid out in front of him, his to take, and it really was like his first time all over again. He wanted to get it right.  
  
“Hey,” Dave said. Alan glanced up at him, and Dave just smiled – it wasn’t seductive or hungry, he wasn’t laughing or teasing. He was Dave, smiling up at him like he so often did, just happy in the moment like there was no place in the world he’d rather be.  
  
Alan smiled back, and he turned onto his side and reached out with one hand to grip the base of Dave’s erection. Dave moaned and his cock gave a little jerk. Dave’s cock was long and thin, and the skin was darker than Alan would’ve have expected. Alan stroked up the length of it, and then slowly back down, enjoying the way the skin slid over the hard tissue beneath. He stopped at the tip and dipped his thumb into the pre-come collected there, and rubbed it between his fingers.  
  
“Fuck, Al, don’t stop,” Dave said. His voice was raw, like he sometimes sounded after a gig.  
  
Alan stroked a few more times, experimenting with long, slow efforts, harder and softer grips. Dave responded to it all, moaning and pumping into Alan’s hand. He reached back and grabbed the pillow in a fist, turning his head into the crook of his elbow.  
  
When Alan let go of his cock Dave groaned a protest, but he sighed when Alan climbed on top of him. Alan lined up their bodies and held himself up, so he could look into Dave’s face, and then he reached down between them to fist Dave’s erection in one hand. Dave arched his back and pushed up into his hand, moaning loud enough that Alan wondered momentarily about their neighbors. He quieted Dave with a kiss on the mouth.  
  
Alan rutted against Dave’s hip, his cock leaving wet trails on Dave’s skin that felt slick and wonderful. He stroked Dave at the same time, and kissed him sloppily, and when Dave came over Alan’s hand and stomach, he cried out and gripped Alan’s shoulder so hard that it hurt. Alan moved his hand, wet with Dave’s semen, to his own cock and stroked himself until he came too, breathless and moaning into the side of Dave’s neck.  
  
Alan barely managed to shift to the side before he collapsed on the bed with a groan. They were both sticky and hot, and Alan’s back ached from holding himself over Dave, but his head was buzzing in a pleasant way and he felt drunk with satisfaction. Dave slid his arm under Alan’s shoulders and tugged him closer, and he kissed him on the forehead, and on the mouth.  
  
“Told you this was a brilliant idea,” Dave said.  
  
Alan laughed, but he was inclined to agree. “You’re a bloody genius.”  
  
Dave wrapped his other arm around Alan’s side and Alan let himself be pulled over, until his head was resting on Dave’s shoulder. It felt strange to be held this way, as he’d held so many women over the years. But it was good – it was safe.  
  
  
  
+++  
  
  
  
Alan woke up a while later, just long enough to pull back the bed covers and coax Dave into climbing underneath them. When Dave rolled onto his side Alan curled up behind him, tucking his knees under Dave’s thighs and snaking an arm around his waist.  
  
He woke again and realized the lights had been turned off, and in the pale, filtered light coming in through the window, he saw Dave watching him, his eyes dark and shining. “Go back to sleep,” he said, and Alan did.  
  
The next time Alan woke to Dave tugging at his cock, which was hard again and already wet. Alan moaned and fisted a hand in Dave’s hair, and he came before his head had even cleared. He watched in a haze as Dave stroked himself and came over Alan’s stomach and chest. Dave kissed him once on the forehead, then wiped off his chest with something that may have been Alan’s own underwear. Dave laid his head on Alan’s chest, and he was humming softly when Alan fell asleep again.  
  
It was past dawn when Alan finally woke fully, blinking in the morning light. He was groggy and he could tell he still hadn’t slept enough, but he felt sticky all over and he realized the one major downside of having sex with another man was the multiple wet spots – he swore even the sheet under his feet was damp. Dave was lying on his stomach beside him, one hand thrown over Alan’s chest, his face turned away. His hair was sticking up wildly in the back.  
  
Alan smiled at him, and turned his head toward the window. The sky outside was a bright, clear blue, almost painfully brilliant. People had this idea in their heads about Berlin, he thought – gray and bleak, even in the west, with the Wall a towering, imposing presence over everything. But Berlin was beautiful. It was alive and vibrant, like a city full of people determined to be free and happy and clutch at whatever joy they could find, no matter how small.  
  
Alan knew this wouldn’t last, what he’d found with Dave. But they had three weeks before they left Berlin, and that felt like a lot. It felt like all the time in the world.

 


	8. Chapter 8

_I don’t care if you’re going nowhere  
Just take good care of the world_  
-The Landscape Is Changing  
  
  
  
Alan was late getting to the studio the next day, but really, he considered it a minor miracle he got in at all. He’d had two showers and managed to go through three pairs of underwear before escaping Dave’s clutches — and the way Dave kept tearing at his clothes Alan was afraid he was going to need to go shopping again too.  
  
He felt oddly relaxed as he walked into Hansa, like a weight had been lifted off his shoulders. It wasn’t unlike the feeling he got after finishing a particularly stubborn song, or walking off the stage after a gig. It was really the opposite of what he might have expected to feel. He’d spent days trying to push Dave out of his mind — or at least push the idea of pursuing him out of his mind — but in the end, somehow just letting Dave in was simpler, almost liberating. Maybe it was because they didn’t have much time. Alan could live with that. He’d have to — they both would.  
  
Another of Alan’s songs was on the mixing board. “Fools” was a fairly unsuccessful attempt at a pop song and while it might end up a decent B-side, he doubted it would make it on to the final album. But Alan wasn’t going to let it derail his good mood. He sat at the console and tipped back in his chair, tucking his hands behind his head.  
  
Gareth narrowed his eyes at him and smirked. “Had a good shag last night, did we? No wonder you ran out on me.”   
  
Alan felt his face warm, but he forced himself to grin casually back at Gareth. “Mart’s girlfriend was in town. Had to show her a good time and all,” Alan said. “Sorry, Mart.”  
  
Martin, who was fiddling with the amplifier behind them, laughed out loud. “Anne’s idea of a good time is a nice potluck followed by midnight mass. I should be apologizing to you, mate.”  
  
Alan felt a bit guilty for poking fun at Anne — especially to use her as an easy distraction— but he suspected she wasn’t going to be around much longer and anyway, she wasn’t there to hear it. Besides, he was relieved to see Martin back to normal instead of curled up on the couch, pouting. Even if normal for Mart was laughing inappropriately at bad jokes made at his girlfriend’s expense.  
  
The three of them worked in peace for a couple of hours. Usually Alan didn’t give much thought to specific lyrics — not by the time they’d reached the mixing stage anyway, when he’d heard them a hundred times or more— but that afternoon the words of his own song seemed to take on a weight that he didn’t especially appreciate. Alan hated to read too much into songs, even if they were his own, and more than that, he hated feeling like a sentimental sap. But his mind kept latching on to certain lines and taunting him with them.  
  
He’d been thinking of a former girlfriend when he’d written the song, and he’d felt, well, foolish — both during the relationship and after, and while writing the lyrics. He’d once promised that he wouldn’t allow himself to feel used by another person again. He despised feeling taken advantage of — it was the worst kind of betrayal, because it meant Alan had betrayed himself. It meant he hadn’t taken care of himself, kept himself safe. More than anything, Alan didn’t suffer fools, least of all when he was playing the part.  
  
But for some reason Dave made him want to throw caution to the wind. He wasn’t sure if it was faith — that in the end, he and Dave would find a way to hold on to their friendship, when this was all over — or just blind lust. It wasn’t as though Alan thought they had some kind of future together. He wasn’t naive. He knew this story ended with him alone and bitter and almost definitely hungover, and hopefully not full of regret.  
  
But when Dave walked into the studio that evening, smiling at Alan and bumping his shoulder as he handed over a cheese sandwich, Alan felt like his own grin would split his face. He ducked his head so no one else would see, and he bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing with the joy of it all. And he thought that yes, this was worth it. Foolish or not.  
  
  
  
+++  
  
  
  
They slept together that night, and all of the nights after. During the day they sometimes traded urgent, breathless handjobs in the men’s toilet, one of them with his back to the door to keep anyone from walking in. They kissed in the kitchen until their lips were bruised and swollen, and before going back to the control room they would adjust their clothes, and Dave would smooth down Alan’s hair where it was mussed from his fingers tangling in it. They weren’t as careful as they should have been — Fletch once walked into the kitchen when Dave’s hand was down the front of Alan’s trousers, and it was only because they happened to be sitting at the table at the time that Fletch didn’t see anything. But they learned not to leave marks in obvious places, and they mostly managed to keep their hands out of each other’s pants when they might be caught.  
  
Every night they stayed in the studio until well past midnight, and when they got back to the hotel they had frantic, greedy sex, both of them impatient from spending the day in such close quarters. They would make each other come with rough, quick strokes, sometimes still standing, their shirts rucked up to their chests and their trousers pulled down to their thighs. They’d shower together afterward, and the first time Alan tasted Dave’s cock he was on his knees, hot water falling over his head like a storm.  
  
“Oh fuck, Al,” Dave said, and he slid a hand over Alan’s wet hair, holding his head in place.  
  
Alan closed his eyes, letting the water run down his face, and he swept his tongue over Dave’s dick, only half-hard from having come so recently. He sucked the tip between his lips, and felt it grow there, eager and needy. Dave was so careful, so controlled, moving his hips in measured thrusts, until Alan wrapped his arms around Dave’s waist and squeezed his wet arse, fingers digging into his flesh. Dave pushed deep into Alan’s mouth and came, and it was salty and bitter and hot, and Alan swallowed all of it. He sucked at Dave’s cock until it was soft and Dave groaned and pulled out, and helped him stand up.  
  
“Christ, Al, you look so fucking good with my cock in your mouth.”  
  
Alan groaned, and Dave fisted his cock, hard like he preferred it, and after only two or three strokes Alan clutched at his shoulders and came.  
  
They had sex two or three times every night, and at least once before Alan went back to the studio every day. Sometimes in the morning, Alan would wake up with Dave spooned behind him, his erection pressed against Alan’s arse while he stroked him off slowly. Alan would feel Dave’s cock nudging against his arsehole and he’d wonder how that would be, to feel Dave pushing into him, taking him. He’d fantasize about it, how he’d pull up one knee to spread himself open, how Dave would stretch him, and slide in so slowly. He’d come thinking about Dave pounding into him.  
  
They didn’t talk about fucking. Alan wanted it – he wanted to be fucked, and he wanted to fuck Dave too, spread his thighs and thrust into him while Dave lay on his back and watched. But it seemed somehow like a barrier neither of them was ready or willing to cross.  
  
They didn’t talk about what they were doing much at all, which was fine with Alan. He didn’t want to have that conversation – not ever, and certainly not at the moment. He just wanted to work with Dave in the studio, and go home with him and share with him what he could. He didn’t want much at all, really.  
  
  
  
+++  
  
  
  
With just one week left in Berlin, Dan dropped terrible news on them.  
  
“Everyone to the studio at noon tomorrow. We’re filming ‘Everything Counts.’”  
  
The chorus of groans would have been funny if it hadn’t been so heartfelt. Filming videos was, without doubt, the very worst part about being in a somewhat famous pop band, Alan thought. He knew the others agreed. It was just such a perfect combination of humiliation and anxiety, mixed with a large dash of extreme boredom.  
  
“Not another bloody video,” Dave said.  
  
“We haven’t even finished the final mix of the song,” Fletch said.  
  
“Noon,” Dan said, jabbing at his own watch.  
  
Ordinarily a noon call time wouldn’t have posed a problem, but of course it cut into Alan and Dave’s morning sex, and they both arrived at the studio breathless and 15 minutes late. Dan gave them a hard glare, but otherwise let them off.  
  
Alan had never met Clive Richardson, but he’d worked with the band once before. He shook hands with Alan then announced that he planned to finish filming by the end of the day.  
  
“Right,” Dave said under his breath. They’d heard that before.  
  
But Clive had a brusque, efficient manner that Alan hoped would bode well for the video shoot. He took them upstairs to an unused studio, where a space had been cleared except for a video camera and a waist-high xylophone.  
  
“You know how to play this?” he said to Alan.  
  
Alan shrugged. “Sure.” He took the sticks and tapped a few keys, feeling like an idiot while the rest of the band watched and sniggered from the far side of the room. “Everything Counts” came on over the speaker, and Alan looked at Clive and raised an eyebrow.  
  
“Wait for it,” Clive said. Alan frowned at him. The opening beat played, and then Alan heard it – he couldn’t remember what they’d sampled, but the notes really did sound like they could have come from a xylophone. “Got it?”  
  
“Yeah,” Alan said with a nod.  
  
“Good,” Clive said, and yelled for someone to restart the song before getting behind the camera.  
  
Alan only played for 10 or 15 minutes. All in all, it was pretty painless, and anyway, it could have been worse – he could have been Fletch, forced to play the shawm. Dave went last, just lip syncing and dancing, and they were done in under two hours.  
  
“That’s it?” Martin said. Clive shook his head, and Martin sighed. “I knew it couldn’t be that easy.”  
  
“Let’s see: ‘grabbing hands.’ What do you think? We’ll have to dance around with mannequin arms?” Fletch said.  
  
“Don’t be daft,” Dave said. “We’ve got to grab stuff, yeah? Maybe we’ll be grabbing each other.”  
  
He winked at Alan, who rolled his eyes even though he secretly approved of that idea.  
  
“If we’re going to grab anything it should be big piles of money,” Alan said.  
  
Fletch felt around in his back pocket and took out his wallet. “I’ve got about a hundred mark,” he said, flipping through bills.  
  
“What do you need that kind of cash for?” Dave said.  
  
Fletch shrugged. “I get hungry.”  
  
“That’s a lot of Toast Hawaii,” Martin said.  
  
“Okay, lads, I hope you packed your swim trunks,” Dan said from the studio door. “We’re going to the beach.”  
  
In fact, none of them had brought swim wear, of course. Alan wasn’t too bothered – he liked the ocean, but he wasn’t much of a sun-and-sand sort of bloke. But he was intrigued when Dan said they’d be filming at the Strandbad Wannsee, a popular riverfront beach in southwest Berlin. It would be nice to get out of their immediate neighborhoods in the city, and spend a few hours in the sun. He might even find some time to sneak away with Dave – there was almost always a lot of waiting between takes when they filmed videos.  
  
The band all went in one car, and along the way Martin told them he’d heard of a nude beach at the Strand. Martin seemed titillated by the idea of it, but in Alan’s very limited experience, people who went nude in public were almost always the type of people he’d prefer remained clothed.  
  
Clive was already set up and waiting for them when they arrived at the beach half an hour later. The Strand was packed with people, most of them in swim trunks and bikinis, and Alan figured it must be a Saturday or Sunday if the beach was so crowded. He found it difficult to keep track of the days of the week when every day was pretty much the same, and standing on the beach now, it was strange to look at these ordinary Germans living their ordinary, Monday-to-Friday lives. Alan wondered if he’d ever have a life like that, or if he even wanted to.  
  
Filming the video really was very painless, although it involved a lot of sitting around and pretending to have a good time – perhaps not acting exactly, but a little too close for Alan’s taste. Still, it was warm out and Dave took off his jacket, revealing a sleeveless shirt underneath, so the afternoon wasn’t a complete loss. Clive sat the four of them on striped beach chairs all in a row, and told them to chat and enjoy themselves. Alan felt stupid and drummed his fingers while he thought of all of the things he’d rather be doing with Dave.  
  
When they finally wrapped up filming there was still a good deal of daylight left and Mart suggested they spend a couple more hours at the beach. Dan had to take a car back to the studio, but he gave the rest of them the go-ahead to stay if they wanted. Alan would have preferred to take Dave back to the hotel for a good ravaging, but Martin and Fletch seemed to assume all of them were staying behind and Alan couldn’t come up with a plausible excuse to leave. Anyway, Dave was lying back in his beach chair and soaking up the sun, eyes closed and hands tucked behind his head, looking completely relaxed.  
  
They’d been lounging in the sun for probably an hour when Martin sat up in his chair and crooked a finger at Alan.  
  
“Me and Fletch are going to look for the nude beach. You two want to come along?” he said. Alan glanced at Dave, who looked like he could be asleep, although it was hard to tell when he was wearing sunglasses.  
  
“Go on, we’ll meet you there in a bit,” Alan said.  
  
Martin nodded and got up, walking toward the north end of the beach and dragging a rather embarrassed looking Fletch behind him. When they were nearly out of sight Alan sat up and leaned over Dave, and he laid a hand on his upper arm. The skin was warm from the sun, and Alan rubbed a thumb over the bone of his shoulder. Dave stirred and shifted his head so he was looking at Alan.  
  
“You awake?” Alan said.  
  
“I am now.” Dave lifted his head and looked around. “Where’re Mart and Fletch?”  
  
Alan jerked his chin toward the northern beach. “Went looking for the nude beach.”  
  
Dave laughed and waggled his eyebrows. “Well then, can’t let them have all the fun, can we?”  
  
“Pervert,” Alan said. He wrapped his hand around Dave’s arm and pulled him up. “C’mon, let’s go.”  
  
The crowds were starting to thin out a little but there were still quite a few people on the beach and Alan and Dave had to weave between sandcastles and beach blankets as they made their way up the shore. A few families were packing up, and people were lining up to use the public showers that dotted the edge of the sand. It was obvious when they were nearing the “adult” section of the beach, because there were far fewer people, and most of them were men – and, as expected, not exactly Alan’s type. They crawled over a rocky section and on the other side was a small, secluded beach where a handful of nude sunbathers were sprawled out on towels. It was perhaps more naked flesh all in one place than Alan had seen in his life. He couldn’t say it was a turn on, exactly, but all the same it made him hungry to see a lot more of Dave than just his bare arms.  
  
On the far side of the beach Alan spotted Martin and Fletch – Mart with his shirt off, but thankfully his trousers still on. They were sitting side by side in the sand, and Martin waved for them to come over. Dave waved back and moved to walk toward them, but Alan grabbed his arm and held him back.  
  
“What’s wrong?” Dave said.  
  
“Nothing. I just had an idea,” Alan said.  
  
He waved at Mart and gestured behind him, suggesting that he and Dave were returning to the main beach. He laughed when Fletch started to get up to join them and Martin pulled him back down to the sand.  
  
“You have a plan,” Dave said, sounding suspicious – and intrigued – as he followed Alan back the way they’d come.  
  
Alan didn’t say anything, but he led Dave away from the water toward one of the bathhouses, where people could use the showers or change into or out of swim clothes. He pushed Dave into a men’s bathhouse and stepped up behind him, and said quietly in his ear, “I want to suck you.”  
  
“Fuck, Al,” Dave said, his voice thick. “In here?”  
  
“Yeah, and you’re going to have to be very quiet, so no one hears us,” Alan said. He ran a hand up Dave’s back, stopping at the base of his neck and scratching into his hair. Dave shivered and moaned faintly.  
  
Alan pushed him toward a changing room, which wasn’t a room so much as a tiny alcove, just barely large enough for the both of them, and a swinging door that didn’t lock. There was a bench and Alan sat on it, and he put his hands on Dave’s hips and walked him forward.  
  
He made quick work of Dave’s trousers and pulled out his cock, which was already hard. Alan smiled up at Dave, who was just staring down at Alan’s hand on his erection.  
  
“Remember,” Alan said, “keep quiet.” And he took as much of Dave’s cock into his mouth as he could, letting it slide deep between his lips and over his tongue.  
  
Dave groaned loudly, once, before cutting himself off. He bent forward a little, and planted both hands on the wall over Alan’s head to support himself. Alan looked up at him through his lashes, and the raw need on Dave’s face was enough to make Alan grab his own cock through his trousers. Dave’s eyes were closed and he was biting his bottom lip, clearly trying very hard to be still and silent. Alan opened his trousers and pulled out his erection, fisting it in one hand while he sucked Dave even deeper, until it felt like it would hit the back of his throat. He pulled back, gliding his tongue along the bottom, and wrapped his lips around the head.  
  
There was a laugh in the main room and Alan heard what sounded like two men entering the bathhouse. Dave’s eyes shot open and he tried to pull away from Alan, but Alan wrapped an arm around his waist and held him still. He lowered his head, taking Dave deep again, and then pulled back, setting up a slow rhythm so Dave was fucking his mouth. When Dave started thrusting into him, Alan took his hand off his waist and gripped the base of Dave’s dick, stroking him while he sucked him.  
  
The men outside were talking. Alan couldn’t understand a word they were saying, but he wasn’t sure he would have been able to follow them even if they were speaking in English. He wanted to really work Dave – stroke him hard and fast and make loud, vulgar sounds while he sucked him off – but he was afraid of giving them away. Trying so hard to stay quiet while the two blokes outside chatted innocently was more of a turn on than Alan could have imagined, or cared to admit, actually.  
  
Dave picked up the pace, forcing himself hard and fast into Alan’s mouth until Alan was just going with it, lips spread wide and accommodating. Then Dave thrust into him one more time and held himself there, and Alan could feel his whole body shaking as he came. Alan swallowed hard, and he grabbed Dave by the hips to hold him still and support him until he was spent. Dave leaned forward and rested his head on the wall between his hands, and when he looked down at Alan, he just shook his head and smiled tiredly. But he reached down with one hand to cup Alan’s cheek, and sift his fingers through his hair.  
  
Outside, the men’s voices faded away as they walked out of the bathhouse. Dave sighed loudly, like he was relieved just to be able to make a sound.  
  
“That was bloody insane, Al,” he said.  
  
“Bloody brilliant, you mean.”  
  
Dave chuckled. He stepped back from the wall and wiped a hand across his forehead. It was only when he looked down at Alan again that he seemed to realize that Alan was still sitting on the bench, slowly stroking his own erection. Dave licked his lips, and looked up to meet Alan’s eyes.  
  
“You need some help with that?”  
  
“Yeah, I could use a hand,” Alan said with a smirk.  
  
Dave rolled his eyes. “Bloody pervert,” he said, but he sank to his knees and didn’t say another word for a while.  
  
  
  
+++  
  
  
  
That night the four of them went out to dinner, which sounded like a most unremarkable evening, but Alan wasn’t sure they’d ever done that – just the four of them, all four of them, out to dinner. Martin picked the restaurant, a Spanish place that was actually quite good, with an expansive vegetarian menu and an even more expansive cocktail menu. All told, Alan couldn’t remember a better night with the band, when everyone got along and he wasn’t once made to feel awkward or out of place. Even when they reminisced, as four mates always did over dinner, it wasn’t about their shared youth in Basildon or the sound engineer from Speak & Spell who’d reminded all of them of some axe murderer out of a horror movie.  
  
“Al, I’ll never forget the look on your face when the speaker blew out at the Ritz,” Dave said.  
  
“It wasn’t just a speaker, it was my monitor,” Alan said, laughing along with the others. “And it blew up in my face. I thought I was done for.”  
  
“It was just a few sparks,” Fletch said.  
  
“Actually, the best part of that gig was after, when that girl asked Al on a date,” Martin said. “She was what, 15?”  
  
“Thirteen, actually,” Dave said. “She invited him to her birthday party, remember?”  
  
They were all fairly drunk by the time the bill arrived, and Martin took out a credit card and told them the dinner was on Dan, at his insistence. Everyone agreed that another round of drinks was in order.  
  
“So where to next, lads?” Fletch said. “Mart wants to check out that new club in Schoeneberg. What’s it called?”  
  
“Luzia,” Martin said. “I heard they’ve got a really good DJ from Hamburg playing tonight.”  
  
Dave perked up – Alan knew how much he liked dancing. But Alan kicked him under the table and said, “Actually, I think I’m going back to the hotel. Feel like I got a little too much sun today.”  
  
Fletch cocked his head and studied him for a moment. “You do look a bit flushed. But at least you didn’t get a burn on your-”  
  
Martin slapped a hand over his mouth, and choked out a nervous laugh. When Fletch glared at him he let him go.  
  
“Well, it’s not my fault you refused to put sunscreen on it,” Fletch said.  
  
Alan laughed, but from the corner of his eye he could see Dave frowning at him.  
  
“You coming then, Dave?” Fletch said.  
  
Alan turned to Dave and caught his eye for a second, and then Dave looked away. “No, I’m pretty knackered myself,” he said.  
  
They finished their last cocktails and split up – Martin and Fletch for the new club, Alan and Dave for the Intercontinental. Alan could tell Dave was a little disappointed, but he had every intention of making it up to him at the hotel.  
  
It was an easy walk from the restaurant to the hotel, but it was cold out, and when they passed a neighborhood park Dave suggested they cut through it rather than walk around. The park was lit only by the faint glow of nearby streetlamps, and it seemed to be deserted. A breeze picked up and skirted through the park, rustling the trees overhead. It was really quite nice, and after a few minutes, Alan got very brave and reached for Dave’s hand. He’d only meant to squeeze it, just rub his thumb over Dave’s fingers – they weren’t some couple out on a romantic walk or some rubbish like that. So he was surprised when Dave held tight to his hand, and when they’d walked into a shadowed spot under a tree, he stopped Alan and kissed him.  
  
Alan moaned happily, and when Dave let go of his hand, Alan wrapped that arm around his waist, under his jacket. For several minutes they just kissed, easy and familiar, Dave’s arms loose around Alan’s shoulders, Alan slipping his hands into the back pockets of Dave’s jeans.  
  
Alan figured they probably shouldn’t linger too long in the park – it was cold, and there was no telling when someone might stroll by – but there was no reason they couldn’t have just a bit of fun first. His kisses turned more urgent, more possessive, and he moved one hand between their bodies and cupped Dave’s crotch, pressing his palm against the erection growing there. He squeezed, and then started working the button of Dave’s jeans.  
  
But Dave put a hand over Alan’s, and he pulled away from the kiss, breathing hard. “Again, Al? In a bloody park?” he said, sounding a little irritated. But Alan could hear the laughter in his voice too. “I had no idea you were so fucking insatiable, mate.”  
  
“Just want to get as much of you as I can,” Alan said, dropping kisses along the line of Dave’s jaw. “We don’t have much time left.”  
  
“Time? We’ve got all night, unless you have a date with some other bloke lined up for later.”  
  
“In Berlin,” Alan said. He sucked on a spot under Dave’s ear. “We don’t have much time in Berlin.”  
  
Dave pulled away, and when Alan grunted in frustration and leaned toward him again, he moved his hand to grip Alan’s shoulder. “What are you on about?”  
  
“We’ve only got another week, Dave.”  
  
“Yeah,” Dave said slowly.  
  
“And then we go back to London,” Alan prompted him.  
  
Dave nodded, and when Alan didn’t elaborate he frowned. “You’re going to have to spell it out for me, mate.”  
  
Alan stared hard at him, not sure if Dave was just playing dumb, or if he really hadn’t thought about what would happen between them when they went back to London, and their normal lives.  
  
“And then it’s over,” Alan said.  
  
Dave just looked at him blankly, and he opened his mouth and said, “What’s-” and then he stopped. It was like a mask fell of his face, and one second he looked completely stunned, and then he was laughing. Alan didn’t know whether he should feel hurt or angry, so he settled on perplexed. And maybe a little offended.  
  
“It’s not funny, you know,” Alan said.  
  
But Dave just kept laughing, and he lifted his hand from Alan’s shoulder and swatted him hard on the back of the head.  
  
“Ow!” Alan said, reaching up to rub the sore spot. “What the fuck was that for?”  
  
“You idiot,” Dave said. “You really thought this whole thing was over when we got back to London? What, like it was just a Berlin thing? Fuck, Al, were you going to dump me?”  
  
Dave was grinning like he’d just heard the best joke, but Alan was too shocked – and after a moment’s thought, too relieved and too fucking happy – to be mad at him.  
  
“No, I wasn’t going to dump you, but I might if you don’t stop laughing at me, you bastard,” Alan said.  
  
That just made Dave laugh harder, and he bent over so his head was resting on Alan’s shoulder, and he rubbed at his eyes like he was actually wiping away tears. Alan rolled his eyes, but despite himself, he laughed too. It was several minutes before Dave could stop, and he was still breathing hard when he finally stood up straight.  
  
“So that’s why you’ve been mauling me every chance you get then?” Dave said.  
  
Alan raised an eyebrow at him. “I wasn’t the only one doing the mauling. That day in the kitchen with Fletch was all on you, mate.”  
  
“Yeah, well, I guess we’re both too bloody insatiable,” Dave said.  
  
Dave smiled fondly at him, and he pulled Alan’s head forward to kiss him once on the mouth, then he just wrapped his arms around Alan’s waist and held him close. And it hit Alan, finally, that he had Dave, apparently for the foreseeable future. His head was spinning with this revelation, and he found he couldn’t focus his thoughts – he had no idea how to fit this new information into the reality he’d built in his mind. So he let it go, for the moment.  
  
They stood in silence, Dave rubbing slow, easy circles over Alan’s back and Alan just enjoying it, pressing his face into Dave’s neck and shoulder. In the cool night air, Alan felt warm with Dave tucked against him. But after a while he stepped back.  
  
“You want to go to that club?” Alan said. “The place Mart was talking about?”  
  
Dave chuckled, and pulled Alan back toward him.  
  
“No,” he said. “I’m staying right here.”

 


	9. Chapter 9

_The grabbing hands grab all they can_  
 _Everything counts in large amounts_  
-Everything Counts  
  
  
  
It was only later, when he was lying in bed with Dave, that Alan realized they’d been dating for two weeks. Not just shagging – although there was obviously a lot of that – but sharing their meals and their beds, spending all their free time together. Only Dave Gahan, Alan thought with a laugh, could have suckered him into a relationship without him even being aware of it.  
  
They’d taken their time walking back to the hotel, and the sex had been lazy and slow, indulgent in a way neither of them had allowed before. Dave had stripped Alan with a level of focus and confidence that was insanely hot – there’d been no buttons flying or torn sleeves. And then he’d laid Alan on the bed and just stood over him, his sharp, bright eyes moving over him from head to toe. Alan hadn’t moved, had barely breathed, his skin tingling as though Dave were actually touching him, and by the time Dave had sat next to him on the bed and traced one finger up his side, over his ribs, Alan had moaned and arched his back from the shock of pleasure.  
  
They’d done that, both of them quietly exploring, for what felt like hours – may have even been hours – before Dave had finally relented with a laugh and let Alan crawl on top of him and come, thrusting against his belly. Alan had shouted and buried his face in the crook of Dave’s neck, and he’d stayed there while Dave rubbed his hands over his back, like he was soothing him, like Alan needed to be soothed.  
  
“I want to fuck you,” Dave had said quietly. “Can I fuck you, Al?”  
  
Alan felt like he’d been waiting forever for Dave to ask, and even as his heart had fluttered with nerves and anticipation, he’d nodded yes. Dave had been slow and gentle, frustratingly careful with him, and by the time he’d pressed in there had been no pain, just the terrifying, incredible sensation of fullness – of being pushed to his limits and still wanting more. He’d been on his back, and he’d locked his eyes on Dave’s, feeling brave but powerfully vulnerable. And Dave, bless him, had smiled and stroked one warm hand over the side of Alan’s face before pressing fully into him.  
  
When Dave had come and rolled off of him, Alan had been left feeling empty and relieved and oddly satisfied, even without another orgasm. He’d tucked up against Dave’s side, and Dave had wrapped an arm around him and held him close.  
  
“You all right?”  
  
“Yeah. That was, I don’t know, Dave. It was pretty fucking great.”  
  
“Yeah, it was,” Dave said. Alan could hear the smile.  
  
“Where’d you learn that anyway?” Alan said. He poked a finger into Dave’s ribs. “Were you lying when you said you’d never been with a bloke, you bloody bastard?”  
  
Dave laughed. “No, I wasn’t lying. Remember what you said to me a few weeks ago? About learning everything I knew about sex from the Bas lads?”  
  
Alan frowned, but then laughed when he remembered. “You’ve got to be fucking joking.”  
  
“Serious as can be, mate,” Dave said. “Just keep that in mind next time you’re sniggering about the thugs from Basildon.”  
  
“Wonders never cease,” Alan said.  
  
+++  
  
Alan waited until the following morning to really panic, but by then, it was too late for a good freak out. He woke early, Dave still out cold and snoring into a pillow, and Alan slipped out of bed to relieve himself and ended up collapsing on the side of bathtub when the enormity of it all washed over him like a wave. They really were going to give this a shot, apparently. And he was glad for it – thrilled, even. Every time the panic threatened to seize his chest, Alan found himself thinking of some future with Dave – just simple things, really, like checking into a hotel room together or going off on their own to see some dumb monument in a city they’d never visited before. And the panic slipped away – he couldn’t hold onto it, even though he tried.  
  
He stood up to wash his face, and when he looked up from the sink, he stopped and stared at himself in the mirror. Water was dripping off his chin and nose, and he blinked it out of his eyes. He realized he was looking for something different – something that might have changed in his face. A look in his eye, a smirk or a frown that he couldn’t help, that would give away how much his life had been turned upside down. But really, he looked the same, and the strangest part was that he didn’t feel much different either. He felt like himself, just – happier.  
  
Alan dried his face and climbed into bed with Dave again, and he fell back to sleep easily, his head empty, his mind at ease.  
  
+++  
  
They only had the studio space for another week but they’d need more than that to finish all the mixes they had planned, which meant no matter how much they got done in Berlin there would still be more work when they returned to London. So the mood in the control room was fairly restless and carefree as they mixed “Everything Counts.” It reminded Alan of the last days of school before summer holidays, with poor Gareth cast as the bedraggled teacher, trying and mostly failing to retain some order in the room. Alan, at least, started staying late at the studio again, partly because he took pity on Gareth, but mostly because he didn’t feel the same sense of urgency and impatience of the weeks before, and it felt good to pour himself back into the music without the constant, greedy thought of losing Dave. Not that Dave wasn’t a distraction, but he was a far more tolerable distraction now, and one that Alan could resist, just a bit.  
  
“This song is really bloody good,” Fletch said one afternoon, two days before they were leaving Berlin. Martin was in the studio, playing his guitar while he worked on a new song that had apparently popped into his head overnight, and Dave hadn’t come in yet. Alan looked up, surprised by the odd note of awe in Fletch’s voice.  
  
“Well, yeah,” Alan said. “Everything Counts” was everybody’s favorite song on the album, and the obvious first single.  
  
“No, I mean it,” Fletch said. “It’s fucking brilliant.”  
  
Alan stared at him, and then he grinned and sat back in his chair, tipping the legs off the floor. He still sometimes forgot how little faith the rest of the band had in their music – Fletch especially, but all of them, really.  
  
“Yeah, it’s really good,” Alan said. “The whole album is.”  
  
Fletch grinned back at him, looking suddenly very young and rather vulnerable. He ducked his head and flipped a page in his magazine, and Alan turned back to the monitor.  
  
“You really think so?” Fletch said a moment later.  
  
Alan met Gareth’s eye and they smirked at each other. “Of course,” Alan said. “It’s my best album yet.”  
  
Fletch scoffed and snapped a magazine page. “It’s your first album, you bloody wanker.”  
  
“Well, there’s that,” Alan said, but he beamed at Fletch. “It’s still my best.”  
  
“Arrogant bastard,” Fletch said under his breath, but he was grinning and anyway, Alan couldn’t help but agree. He really was an arrogant bastard sometimes. One of them had to be.  
  
  
  
+++  
  
  
  
That night Dave was waiting for him in Alan’s room, and they had sex with the lights off, quiet and urgent. Alan was on his knees this time – they’d quickly figured out that position felt best for both of them – and he grabbed at the bed sheets with his fists as Dave pounded into him, his hands hard and possessive on Alan’s hips. He jerked Alan off after he’d come inside him, and they fell into a heap and arranged themselves on their sides, Dave curled up behind Alan.  
  
Alan often came back from the studio feeling wired and anxious, and sometimes the sex helped to calm him down, but sometimes it didn’t. Dave must have felt his nerves tonight, because his hand was drifting up and down Alan’s arm in long, soothing strokes. Alan sighed, and finally rolled onto his back.  
  
“You know we can never tell anyone,” Alan said into the darkness.  
  
Dave stilled, and then he laid a hand on Alan’s stomach. His palm felt heavy and warm and reassuring. “I know.”  
  
“Jo can never find out, or Jeri. Or Fletch or Mart or Dan or anyone.”  
  
“I know, Al.”  
  
Alan turned his head, but Dave’s face was turned away from the window and hidden in shadows. Alan reached down and laid his hand over Dave’s, brushing a thumb over his fingers.  
  
“You’re okay with that? With all of this?” Alan said.  
  
He felt Dave shrug. “I know what I want.”  
  
“And it’s just that easy?”  
  
“No, of course not,” Dave said. “But sometimes it doesn’t have to be so difficult either.”  
  
Dave sounded so young, so naïve and innocent, and Alan wanted to tell him he was being an idiot, but more than that, he wanted to believe him. And he found, at least for now, that he could.  
  
  
  
+++  
  
  
  
On their last day in Berlin, the band and Gareth and Dan gathered in the control room and played the entire album, start to finish. They cranked up the music so it filled the corners of the room and stuck to the walls and the floor and the ceiling, and so any imperfections in the final mix would stand out. There weren’t many. Gareth sat at the main console taking notes, with Dan beside him, occasionally jotting down his own thoughts. Fletch and Mart were on the couch – Fletch with one last plate of Toast Hawaii, Martin looking both vaguely embarrassed and pleased, and Alan thought he must finally realize how good his songs had turned out.  
  
Dave was perched on a metal crate, in which they’d already packed Dan’s Synclavier, and each time a new song started his face lit up, like it was something entirely surprising and wonderful to him. He bobbed his head along with the music and drummed his fingers on his thigh, and Alan wondered if he was thinking about the gigs they’d play and how the audiences would react, and how Dave would perform each song for them. He didn’t know if Dave planned that kind of stuff in advance. He’d have to ask him someday.  
  
Alan walked slowly around the perimeter of the room as the album played. He thought he must look nervous, like he was pacing or couldn’t bear to sit still, but that wasn’t it at all. He mostly just wanted to hear how the album truly sounded, not just from the best spot in the control room – which happened to be where Dave was sitting, of course – but from a blind spot behind the speakers, or in a corner where the music might bounce off the equipment.  
  
But he also wanted to mark this room – or rather to imprint it in his mind, in a way. He’d spent hundreds of hours in this control room, in just about six weeks, and he wanted to remember that it smelled of Dave’s aftershave and sweaty male bodies and cigarettes, and Fletch’s stupid hot cheese and pineapple. He ran his hands over the equipment as he walked around the room. He watched Dave, relaxed and casual in the middle of the room, a smile crinkling his eyes.  
  
Dan had hinted that they might be returning to Hansa for their next album, maybe even to record in the main studio downstairs. Alan hoped they would, because there was no doubt in his mind that this was a special place. Maybe it really was haunted, like Dave had said, or maybe it was the Wall pressing down on them, or the vibrant soul of Berlin itself. Or maybe it was something else – something in the very walls of the building, something old and magical. Alan didn’t actually believe in anything like that, but he couldn’t deny that Hansa fairly hummed with energy, like an amp waiting to explode with sound.  
  
When “And Then” ended, Dan leaned back in his chair and stretched, and the huge smile on his face was like a gift.  
  
“Well, lads, shall we have another listen?” he said.  
  
Everyone laughed, and Dan produced a shopping bag full of warm German beer to celebrate, and Alan joined Fletch and Mart on the couch, squeezing between them and throwing an arm over each other shoulders. Gareth started the album from the top, and Alan thought it sounded even better the second time around.  
  
  
  
+++  
  
  
  
They were a noisy, chatty bunch as they poured down the Hansa main stairs, riding the high of not just having finished an album, but feeling like they’d accomplished something especially grand. Alan realized that for the first time in his life, he’d helped create something that he now wanted desperately to share with the world – something he hoped people would listen to and talk about. He wanted to talk about the album with journalists, and read what critics would write about it, and play the songs for audiences around the world.  
  
He wanted to go out that very night and play. But it was another two months yet before the album was due to be released. The band had a few weeks off before they returned to the studio in London to rehearse, and the tour started in September and went right up to Christmas. It would be a long, exhausting rest of the year, but Alan was looking forward to it -- for more than one reason, he thought, and glanced at Dave. The next few weeks in London would be a nice break from the nonstop work of Berlin, but they wouldn’t be easy, either.  
  
Dan and Gareth were still in the control room, securing the last of their equipment, but the band had to go back to the hotel to pack for their flight back to London that evening. Alan wasn’t sure how he was going to get everything into the luggage he’d brought – he’d purchased a lot of clothes in Berlin, and he’d already been tight on space when he’d arrived.  
  
As the four of them walked by the revered Studio Two on their way out of the building, Alan noticed one of the doors was ajar, and he paused and craned his neck to try to get a look inside. But it was dark, and he couldn’t see anything. He jogged to catch up with the rest of the band at the main door, but Dave stopped him with a hand on the shoulder.  
  
He called out to Martin and Fletch. “Why don’t you two go ahead, Al and I’ll meet you back at the hotel.”  
  
“It’s all right, we can wait,” Martin said.  
  
“No, go on,” Dave said. “We’ll be a few minutes.”  
  
Martin and Fletch exchanged a look, and Mart shrugged and they both left for the hotel.  
  
“What was that all about?” Alan said.  
  
“Nothing. Come on.” Dave pulled Alan back into the building, and he stopped at the door to Studio Two and pushed it open.  
  
Alan hadn’t been in the main studio since the first day they’d arrived at Hansa, which felt like years ago. It had the same effect on him now, like he was walking into an old church or a library filled with ancient scrolls – like they were walking into a sacred place. Light filtered through the windows, picking up dust motes dancing in the air. The room smelled cleaner, fresher, than Alan remembered, and he realized one of the windows was open, and he could hear the faint sounds of faraway voices outside.  
  
“It’s a shame we didn’t get to record here,” Dave said. He’d walked to the opposite side of the room, and he was standing near the grand piano. His voice carried, but it sounded soft and somehow bright, and Alan wondered if it was the acoustics of the studio or something in Dave himself.  
  
“Maybe next year we will,” Alan said.  
  
He walked over to Dave, and he sat at the piano and lifted the cover over the keys. When he set his hands down, the keys were cool and smooth and he couldn’t resist tapping out a simple little melody – nothing specific, and nothing he would ever remember, just something that had been playing in his head recently. When he was done, Dave joined him on the bench, and Alan leaned into him, just resting some of his weight on Dave’s shoulder for a moment.  
  
“I know you’re worried, Al.”  
  
“You’re not?”  
  
Dave didn’t answer for a long while, and Alan didn’t know how to take his silence, so he just sat beside him, thinking that this was nice – he wanted to find a way to preserve this moment, write it into a song or take a photo, make it into something they could hold on to forever.  
  
“I worry about a lot of things,” Dave finally said. “I mean, I know we both do. All of us do, yeah? But no, I’m not worried about that.”  
  
Alan just nodded. In a few hours they’d all be back in London, and they’d go their separate ways, and everything would be back to normal – whatever normal was now. Alan didn’t know. Maybe it involved buying groceries and picking up his dry cleaning and cooking dinner, and maybe it involved moving in with Jeri and her son.  
  
Or maybe normal was going on tour for months on end and returning to the studio for their next album. Maybe it was coming back to Berlin, and spending long days on buses and planes, and nights in hotel rooms with Dave.  
  
Maybe normal was living both lives. Maybe normal was just the people who mattered most – maybe it was just this moment with Dave, and every moment that came after it. Alan wrapped an arm around Dave’s shoulders and kissed his cheek, letting his lips linger on the smooth, warm skin there.  
  
“I’m not worried,” Alan said quietly, and he felt Dave’s cheek curve into a smile.

 

_END_


End file.
